by James Lear
The trunk was a cunning piece of workmanship with a false bottom that it took me several minutes, and three broken nails, to unfasten. There was the list wrapped in purple silk - just two pages of meaningless symbols, numbers and letters. For this Lebecque had been willing to sacrifice his life. I cast around me for the means of destruction, but there was nothing to be found. There would be a fire downstairs. That would have to do. For a moment I held one of his shirts to my face and breathed deeply, hoping to catch a trace of him, then leapt to my feet and ran as if the whole English army were at my back. My mother, disturbed by the racket, appeared at her bedroom door like a ghost, calling after me. I ignored her and bounded down the stairs, into the hall and flung the papers into the flames. I barely breathed until they were consumed in ashes then, grabbing the poker, I smashed the few curled black remnants into powder.
Panting, sweating and with tears smudging my face, I sat on the floor in a daze. My mother glided into the room and clung to the door frame.
‘Charles! What is the matter?’
‘Nothing... nothing...’
‘I insist that you tell me what you are doing.’
‘I cannot.’
‘Is it Lebecque?’
I nodded, and wiped my face. I had to take control of myself. I was truly the man of the house now, without Lebecque’s protection.
‘Mother, I think we must leave Gordon Hall.’
‘What? But I thought -’
‘I do not consider our position here to be safe. Please make preparations for our departure. We will close the house down.’
‘But Charles -’
‘Please, mother. There may be no time to lose.’
I don’t know what I feared exactly; I did not fully understand what Lebecque feared. It was enough that he had trusted me with this final commission and had counselled retreat. He would find me now, after the event, obedient. Now that it was too late to make a difference. Too late to save him.
My mother, recovering miraculously from the ailment that had kept her to her room for so long, bustled around the kitchen with Ethel, directing the packing-up of crates and trunks for our removal to the island of Rum. Within eight hours, the house was put to sleep: dust covers on the furniture, bags on the chandeliers, the shutters barred and locked over every door and window.
I had done my share of the work; as the only man on the estate, I had no choice. MacFarlane, whose services we would usually have called on under such circumstances, was nowhere to be found. I had little doubt in my mind that he was the spy who had sold Lebecque to the English.
A coach and horses was hired at vast expense from Portnacroish, our goods loaded on board by the surly driver, and all was ready for our departure. I was proud of the haste with which I had obeyed Lebecque’s orders - and yet, for all that my mind was occupied with details, I was troubled in my soul. I was running away.
It was what he had told me to do. If he had been here, he would have pushed me into the coach himself and slammed the door on me, ready to face any dangers on his own. Why? Was I not a man as well as he, able to stand up and fight? Did he truly believe in his heart that I would abandon Gordon Hall - and, more to the point, that I would abandon him to the tender mercies of the English? He had said things in his letter which I’d had no leisure to consider - certain phrases - ‘Your image is with me always’-a note of tenderness and regret running through the fevered confessional. I could not interpret it now, I was confused, tired and afraid. My mind jumped back to our last conversation, the imploring look as he was led away like a dog. Duty told him to send me away, to forget me. But something within - behind that trap-door face, that granite exterior - wanted me to do otherwise.
I climbed into the coach beside my mother and we rumbled down the drive, leaving Gordon Hall and all its memories behind us. We rounded the coppice, we passed the stables, drove through the gates and out on to the road, headed north-east to cross the loch at Ballachulish Bridge. My head was spinning.
Delayed at Ballachulish by a queue at the tollgate, we waited motionless for ten minutes. My mother, wrapped in her shawl, was shrinking back into a corner of the carriage. Ethel, exhausted by the day’s alarms, had fallen asleep. Finally the traffic ahead of us inched forward, stopped, inched forward again, and we were moving.
Just before the horses stepped on to the bridge, I eased the door open and dropped quietly to the ground. The carriage picked up speed; I heard my mother’s cry and caught sight of the white flash of her bonnet as I jumped over the fence and slid, unnoticed by any but her, down the slope to the river bank.
I rested quietly by the water until dusk, watching the rats playing on the bank and hearing the rumble of wheels above my head. Finally the tollgate was closed and all was silent.
It was a three-hour walk back to Gordon Hall, but I knew the road like the back of my hand, and gained my home without incident. I was not so foolish as to stay there; when trouble came, I was not intending to face it alone. But I needed supplies for my journey, and I could think of nowhere else to get them.
My journey? Of course, I had decided to go to Fort William and rescue Lebecque. How? I wasn’t sure, yet. Perhaps I would recruit a small private army on the road and storm the castle. Perhaps I would present myself to the captain of the garrison and win him over with the sheer force of my oratory. Or perhaps they would clap me in irons with Lebecque. Anything was better than the thought that he would simply forget me, would believe that I had slipped away to safety on the islands and left him to rot.
The strength of my feelings surprised me; it was not so long ago, after all, that I loathed and despised the man. How easily that had changed.
In Gordon Hall I equipped myself with a sword, money, some warm clothes and all the food I could find (it was little enough) packed up in a leather knapsack. From Lebecque’s trunk I took his cotton shirt and the small framed portrait of a woman; tokens of him, I now suppose, to bring good fortune to my journey; that was how I thought of it at the time. Perhaps the woman was his wife. I preferred to believe it was a sister.
I needed to sleep, but would not allow myself the luxury. How could I think of warm beds with clean sheets when Lebecque was shivering in the misery of a filthy cell? Determined to punish myself, I set out from the house a little after midnight. This was my first mistake. Well rested, with a clear head, I might have fallen into trouble a little less easily.
The way to Fort William took me back along the shore of the loch to Ballachulish, through the Glenduror Forest, a scrubby collection of trees and heath barely worthy of the name; I planned to stop at the village of Auchindarroch to exchange a few coins for provisions; the rest of my little horde I would need for bribes.
The inn at Auchindarroch was busy even in the small hours of the morning. As I emerged, cold and tired, from the last few trees of the forest, I could see the windows blazing with light; a few more paces and I could hear the welcome sound of human voices. With a lighter heart, I trotted the last few yards and opened the door to feel the heat from the fire.
A tired-looking barmaid pushed past me with a tray full of pewter tankards. There was a powerful stink of beer and tobacco in the air. Sprawling around the fire was a company of five men, all, I would say, in their thirties or forties, a rough and ready group but, I thought, honest-looking Scotsmen each and every one of them. When I entered the inn they had been joining in a chorus of Loch Lomond-a crypto-Jacobite hymn, as every young Scot knew well. My immediate fears that these were the dreaded redcoats were swiftly allayed. I felt, for the time being, safe.
The barmaid, her cargo delivered, appeared at my side. ‘We’re full. You should run along, lad.’
‘I don’t need a bed,’ I said. ‘I have a long journey to make. I only want provisions.’
‘You don’t want them here, my dear,’ she whispered, but the men had heard her.
‘What’s that, Molly? Let the young man in! He looks exhausted. Here, young ‘un, come and sit by the fire and give us a song.’
I declined, and repeated my request to the barmaid for food and drink. With a defeated look, she trudged off to the kitchen and left me.
I sat myself on a stool at the end of the bar, well apart from the circle of jolly companions but close enough to the hearth to feel some benefit of the fire. Like all true Scots, they were an amicable crew and could not bear to see a countryman alone and melancholy - not when there was good cheer at hand.
‘Come on, lad, join us! We’ll not bite you!’
‘We’re not the bloody English vermin,’ said another, spitting into the hearth. ‘God send confusion to them all!’
Cheered by this crude confession, and by the sight of the forbidden tartan here and there about their persons, I gained confidence and joined them. No sooner had I sat down than a tankard of ale was in my hand, a friendly arm round my shoulders and a gabble of voices asked for my story.
I looked around the circle of faces. They were a tough-looking bunch. Three of them I took to be brothers: each shared the same brown, wavy hair, the full mouth and a generally simian cast of features. One of the brothers was tall, with huge, long arms that hung out of his side, magnificent against the fur and leather of his sleeveless tunic. The second was shorter, thicker set, a little less apelike than his big brother, less prone to laugh and joke. The third and youngest of the brothers was darker and finer than his elders and wore a white shirt unlaced to the stomach, revealing a smooth brown chest. He had taken off his muddy trousers and was hanging them over the back of his chair to dry by the fire; his legs, unlike the rest of his body, were thick with hair. Their two companions were older and less striking. One was a beetle-browed giant of a man, his head covered only by a quarter-inch of cropped steel-grey hair, his eyebrows jet black in contrast. The other had Viking looks: straight flaxen hair, pale eyebrows, invisible eyelashes and tattoos of strange, curling devices up his arms and around his throat. Both his ears were pierced with gold hoops.
Had I been less full of bravado, I would have considered a little before falling in with such unusual company. However, with the excitement of my quest before me, and the warmth of the fire without and the beer within, I was all too ready to join the gang. They were interested in me. They treated me like a man; a novel experience for me. When they asked what I was doing, I was happy to tell them.
‘I’m travelling to Fort William to rescue a friend of mine.’
‘Oh yes,’ said the middle brother, ‘and where is he, pray?’
‘In a castle.’
‘Ah. The castle.’
‘Held by the English.’
‘The English!’ He looked at the company and smiled. ‘God send confusion to them all!’ They spat in unison and laughed. I tried to follow suit, made a mistake with a mouthful of beer and ended up coughing until the tears were running down my cheeks.
‘Hey, there, Molly,‘’ shouted the tallest brother, ‘bring some whisky for this young man!’
A bottle and glass were set in front of me; from that point on, the glass was never empty, no matter how much I drank.
‘And who are you, brave hero?’ asked the youngest brother, replenishing my draught. ‘What is your name, that we might toast you?’
‘Charles Edward Gordon.’
‘The Gordons of Gordon Hall! The King’s blessing on you!’
‘The King!’ They all stood and lifted their glasses. We sat and drank again. By now I was ecstatic thanks to whisky and self-regard. I thought they were a jolly crew.
‘Perhaps, my lads, you will join me on the road and help defeat the English devils at Fort William!’
‘God send confusion to them all!’ they chorused again, and we spat together, a little more successfully this time.
‘Well, that’s a generous offer,’ said the middle brother, clearly the brightest of the gang, its leader. ‘It would certainly be an honour to serve a noble young man such as yourself, wouldn’t it lads?’ The others mumbled agreements and laughed. I laughed with them.
‘Are you with me, then?’ I cried, leaping to my feet with what I hoped was a heroic flourish.
‘Now,’ said the middle brother, ‘that depends. We are fighting men, you see, loyal to the King in exile, and we could not lend our arms to one who was in any way less than our equal. It is a question of honour.’
‘I’m the equal of any man here,’ I said, putting a hand on the hilt of my sword.
‘Of course, Charlie, of course. A very able swordsman, I’m sure. Come on, now, give us a taste of your skills. Let’s see a few passes there, lad.’
I needed no second bidding. Like a child with an audience of grown-ups, I drew my sword and attempted my best lunges and parries. They were pitiful, I suppose, but the gang cheered and clapped however badly I stumbled.
‘Excellent! Excellent!’ shouted the oldest brother, and stood up. He was over a foot taller than me. ‘Now, let us see if you can drink like a man!’ He picked up a foaming tankard and downed it in one, his thick throat working in great waves as he guzzled the ale. He slammed the vessel down on the table, smacked his lips and put his hands on his hips. The youngest brother handed me a tankard. The rest of them sat and watched me. I was aware that the crop-headed man and the Viking, who had not addressed a word to me, were smiling and whispering to each other.
I took the tankard, raised it to my lips, drew a deep breath and swallowed. One, two, three, four gulps and it was gone-a substantial amount of it down my front, soaking my shirt. They cheered and handed me a glass of whisky, banging their fists on the table to encourage me. I tossed the whisky off in one go, gasped and sat down. My head was spinning, my knees weak.
‘Ah, he’s a bold lad,’ said the middle brother, gripping my thigh, ‘and it’s cruel of us to torment a child such as he.’
‘I’m no child,’ I slurred. ‘I’m as much a man as any of you.’
‘Well, let’s see about that. Davie, you show him.’
Davie, the youngest brother who was still warming his bare legs at the fire, lifted up his shirt and pulled aside his undergarment. A large, soft cock flopped out into the open. In the firelight, and to my fuddled senses, it appeared to be golden.
‘Are you as much of a man as Davie, now?’
‘Yes, and more!’ I would have risen to any challenge, no matter how dangerous or humiliating. I stood up, untied the drawstring at my waist and let my trousers drop to the floor. I was wearing nothing underneath them. My cock was, perhaps, a little longer than his; certainly, it was thicker.
‘Well, that’s a man’s piece for sure, Charlie,’ said the middle brother, ‘but you can never tell what a man’s really got until he’s up and ready for action, if you know what I mean.’
While he was speaking, Davie had already started manipulating his organ until it was sticking out straight in front of him; it had grown considerably. I was still convinced that I was the winner, and in order to show myself off at my full capacity I closed my eyes, thought of Alexander’s cock up my arse and started tugging on my balls. Within a few moments, I was as stiff as a post, my foreskin pulling back halfway over my shiny red knob.
‘It’s a close-run thing, but I think Davie’s got the edge,’ said the middle brother. I was outraged.
‘No, I’m bigger than he is.’ I stuck my hips out to emphasise my point.
‘We’ll just have to measure you up. Stand face to face.’
Davie and I did as we were told.
‘Right you are, Jamie,’ said Davie to his brother, ‘you’re the judge.’
Jamie, the middle brother, took our two hard cocks in his hand and held them side by side, pressed together. The heat from Davie’s weapon was helping me to get even bigger.
‘It’s a close thing...’ said Jamie, rubbing his hand appreciatively up our shafts, which excited me further, ‘but I think I have to say that young Charlie-Boy is the winner.’
God, I was so pleased with myself! I shook Davie’s hand as if I had just won a prize. I clasped my hands above my head in jubilation.
Out of the corner of my eye I noticed the two silent members of the group glaring at me, massaging sinister-looking bulges in their groins; it only heightened my sense of victory.
‘But still, I don’t think you’re the overall winner just yet. You’ve got to match up to Johnnie.’
Johnnie, of course, was the tallest brother. If everything was in proportion, I was licked. But I wouldn’t give up.
‘Come on then, Johnnie,’ I said, ‘let’s see what you’ve got.’ I waved my hips around, making my cock swing in challenge.
Johnnie smiled - not altogether a friendly smile - and pulled off his shirt. His body was powerful: great long muscles, a stomach like a cobbled street. Staring me straight in the eye, he undid the thick leather belt round his waist and threw it aside. His trousers did not drop to the floor; they were held up by a hefty pole in the fork of his legs.
‘Come on, then. See what you’re up against.’ He grabbed my hand and placed it on his cock. Even without seeing it, I could tell it was massive; my hand went barely halfway round it.
‘Pull it out into the open, Charlie,’ said Jamie. ‘Have a good look.’
I did as I was told. I was not disappointed. It was a monstrous piece of meat, a good few inches longer than my own, of awesome girth.
‘Now,’ said Jamie, ‘there’s a rule to this game. The winner takes all. That’s fair, isn’t it?’ I couldn’t concentrate on what he was saying; I was still staring in disbelief at Johnnie’s horse-cock.
‘Take it in your hands. Come on, get both hands on it.’
I took it in a double grip; there was plenty left over. I moved my hands up and down. Johnnie leaned against the back of a chair, thrust his hips forward and enjoyed himself.
‘Now, Charlie,’ continued Jamie, ‘let’s see if you can get all of that in your mouth.’
I knew for certain that I couldn’t, but I wasn’t going to be accused of not trying. I bent forward, licked the tip of Johnnie’s cock, opened my mouth as far as it would go and took maybe the first three inches. It was not the length that prevented me from going any further, but the girth. My eyes were watering.
