The Rogues

by Jane Yolen

  “Surely if it’s stayed hidden this long, it’s safe enough.”

  “Nobody’s ever been minded to seek it out before. After all, why should they cut off their one source of cheap whisky? They came upon the other still by chance, but now they are looking for a reason.”

  I crossed my legs as well and felt a small wind through my hair. A hawk screeched above us. The clouds scudded by. And here we sat, two rogues together, talking and plotting.

  Now that I’d thought it through, I no longer feared he was going to turn me over to the laird. But I had to win him to my plan. Suddenly I realized that I didn’t know how.

  “But things are changing now,” he said.

  I leaned forward. “What do you mean to do?”

  “I need to take the still apart and shift it to a new hiding place, somewhere off McRoy land. Ye can stand lookout for me while I’m working. Think of it as yer first lesson in roguery.” He grinned.

  Not my first, I thought, but I couldn’t tell him that. I grinned back. “Is it far?”

  “Far for ye, not far for me.”

  Sharing his plans, Dunbar started to talk to me in a friendlier fashion, giving me advice on how to always have an eye out for cover. He also said that if I heard animals stir—rabbits and grouse were the best indicators, and crows loved to talk about intruders—it meant there was somebody snaking around close by. I nodded and made a great show of taking in his words, for I didn’t want him to stop talking. He knew everything I needed to know. And more.

  “There must be times,” I said, “when ye have to find a way into somebody’s house … for shelter or food.”

  Dunbar threw me a long glance, almost measuring me. “Hard times make for hard means,” he said at last. “I’ll not deny I’ve taken charity off some as never knew they were giving it, but never from any that couldna afford it. Still, I’d be doing ye no favor to put ye on that track. It’s dangerous work. And a hanging matter if ye’re caught.”

  I bit my lip to hold back my protest. I needed him to tell me more. Those were exactly the things I needed to learn about. I had to get the Blessing back—and soon. But he had no more to say.

  We got up and carried on for a good two hours more, winding up through craggy hills scattered with shriveled saplings and a lot of prickly gorse. It seemed a good place for hiding a still or a bad place for a murder. There were bushes and boulders that kept a man from seeing more than a few yards ahead at any step.

  “This looks like a good …,” I began softly.

  Suddenly Dunbar raised a hand, signaling me to halt and be silent. He cocked his head to one side and listened intently. I did the same, and then I heard voices up ahead.

  Dunbar put a finger to his lips and beckoned me to follow. We stopped by a thorn bush and he listened again.

  “Damn, but they’ve beaten us to it!” He cursed under his breath.

  There was a gust of drunken laughter.

  “From the sound of it, they’re sampling my wares for free.” His whisper was fierce. “How many do ye reckon there are?”

  I listened hard. At last I ventured a guess, holding up two fingers.

  Dunbar nodded. “Good lad. Ye’ve got keen ears when ye choose to use them. Now, best stay out of sight. There’s no sense letting on that ye’re with me.” Unslinging his musket, he started forward in a poacher’s crouch. I kept close behind him.

  “They have ye outnumbered,” I whispered urgently. “They’ll be armed too. A still’s not worth dying over, is it?”

  Dunbar grinned back at me over his shoulder. “I’m counting on them to see it that way.”

  He paused at the space between a boulder and a thornberry thicket. The gap was so narrow I could hardly see past Dunbar at all. But what I could see made my stomach go cold. As I’d guessed, there were two men, their muskets set down on the ground at their feet. They were enjoying their drams of whisky, a jug nestled between them, and they had that soft, muzzy look that men just slightly drunk often seemed to get. They weren’t at the fighting stage yet, just happy and unaware. Beyond them, against the rocks, were the tin drum and pipes of the Rogue’s still, an odd contraption I could make no sense of.

  Dunbar rose slowly to his feet. A rook cawed a warning; the men didn’t look up. They were having too much fun drinking. But at the sound, I held my breath.

  Then Dunbar stepped nimbly into the clearing, cocking his musket and laughing out loud.

  The laird’s men leapt to their feet, and one of them kicked over the jug by accident. It rolled across the ground, the last of the golden liquor dribbling from its neck.

  I edged forward for a clearer view. The man on the left was a thin, nervous type, while the bearded man to the right had a flushed and angry face.

  “I’d not expected to find customers so thirsty they’d come all this way for a wee dram,” said Dunbar. “How are ye two enjoying my drink?”

  Both men had their eyes on his gun. They must have known only too well how quickly he could get off a shot. They were hired men, but he’d been in the king’s army. They moved back against the still, perhaps thinking that Dunbar wouldn’t harm them so near it. They didn’t know what I knew—that he was already planning to dismantle it.

  The thin man cleared his throat. “We’re here on the laird’s business, Dunbar.”

  “And what business would that be, McInnes?” The Rogue’s musket never wavered. That he knew the man’s name surprised me. What surprised me even more was how calm he sounded when he should have been furious with anger.

  “He wants ye off his property,” answered the one with the beard. He took another step back.

  “If that’s what he wants, he’ll need better men than ye two to do the job.”

  “Take a telling, Dunbar,” the thin man pleaded. “He’ll have the militia on ye before long, and how would that serve ye?”

  Dunbar laughed again, but this time there was no mirth in it. “The militia, is it? I must be a very dangerous breed of scoundrel.”

  “Och, man, if ye’ve any wits at all, ye’ll pack up and make a new lair for yerself far away from here,” the bearded man warned.

  “I’ll take that advice as well meant, Sinclair,” Dunbar told him. “Ye’ve been good customers to me before. But surely ye know, I come and go at no man’s bidding. If ye’re truly concerned for my welfare, I’m sure ye’ll be wanting to pay for the whisky ye’ve drunk.”

  The laird’s men exchanged glances, each expecting the other to answer.

  “Come along,” Dunbar urged. “If ye’ve come without money, I’ll have to take it out of yer hide.” His voice was the more frightening for its calmness. “After all, I canna have ye robbing me like common brigands.”

  “There’s no call for that,” said the thin man, McInnes. He fished in his pocket for his purse and lifted it out with shaking fingers. Obviously he didn’t think Dunbar was all that calm. As he tried to open the purse, it slipped out of his hands and hit the ground with a dull clink of coins.

  “Ye’re over-canny with yer pennies, McInnes,” Dunbar said, gesturing at the purse. “Pick it up and pay yer due. Dinna worry, I willna take more than is owed.”

  As the nervous man bent to pick up his money, my eyes flicked to his companion. Taking advantage of the distraction, Sinclair had slipped a stealthy hand inside his coat. What he was drawing out had the glint of sharpened steel.

  “Dunbar!” I cried, jumping out of hiding.

  At my shout the Rogue spotted the danger. He whipped his musket about, took a long stride forward, and cracked the butt hard across the bearded man’s face, knocking him flat. McInnes abandoned his purse and had his hands in the air before Dunbar had even turned the gun on him.

  The thin man blinked warily. “Ye’ve an accomplice now, I see.”

  “An apprentice, if ye don’t mind,” Dunbar corrected. “Before long, these hills will be full of wee rogues and it’s Daniel McRoy who will be packing his bags.”

  The bearded man lay groaning on the ground, a b
loody bruise branded across his cheek.

  “Help him up, McInnes, for I’ll not give him a hand,” Dunbar ordered, his voice now like stone. The thin man helped his dazed comrade to his feet and they began to edge away.

  “Drop yer steel and yer pistols first, then run back to yer master and tell him about the brave job ye’ve done. And if ye cross my path again, I’ll not be so kind to ye.”

  They did as he directed, and I stepped well aside to let them pass. They hurried away like frightened lambs.

  Dunbar rubbed his grizzled jaw. “I can’t abide folk trying to kill me,” he said, though there was a hint of laughter in his voice. “The French came close enough to put me off the notion for good.”

  I smiled, feeling good about the part I’d just played. But Dunbar gave me no time for triumph.

  “Ye think ye’ve done me a good deed, lad. But all ye’ve done is show our hand. Now they know yer with me, they’ll guess it’ll be easier to track me down. And so it will.” He looked over at his still. “Come on,” he said. “Help me break up this blasted thing and hide it. Sinclair will want to return for vengeance soon. And if those gowks are right about soldiers coming, we’d best be out of here. I’ll no be serving drink to the king’s men.”

  IV. THE BLESSING

  Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North,

  The birth-place of Valour, the country of Worth;

  Wherever I wander, wherever I rove,

  The hills of the Highlands for ever I love.

  —Robert Burns, “Farewell to the Highlands”

  21 THE TALE OF WATERLOO

  We hid the still in a rocky fissure miles from where we found it, covering it over with branches. It took us two trips before we were done. The Rogue carried the heavier pieces, and I carried a few of the pipes as well as his tools, though he kept the musket, already primed with its charge, in his hand, the two weapons of the other men stuck down in his belt and his knife in his stocking. Eventually the effort of keeping up with Dunbar’s brisk march started to wear me out. I had fallen a good dozen paces behind when the Rogue paused to look back at me.

  “Ye’re not at yer full strength yet,” he said, not unkindly. “It willna hurt us to stop and catch a breath.”

  We were heading back to the cave: I recognized the stone gully. I thought to protest and make a show of courage, but he silenced me with a wave of his hand.

  “It’s a bad general that marches his men beyond their endurance. It’s nae more than a couple of days ago that ye were pounding at Death’s door like a laird’s factor come for the rent.”

  I laughed at that, and Dunbar gave a thin smile. “I’m glad Death didna answer,” I said. “Maybe he’s as deaf as old Tam Mackay.”

  We got past the slatey walls of the gully and into the small wood, settling at last in the shade of a scrawny elm, its thin leaves enough to keep the fading sun off our faces. It looked to be mid-afternoon. My stomach told me it was well past time to eat.

  I was relieved to see that our brush with danger had given Dunbar a thirst as great as my own. We drank deep from our canteens and shared the bread and cheese I’d packed.

  “See that stream over there?” said the Rogue, gesturing toward a spur of rock jutting out of a nearby hillside. Indeed, I had missed it, but once he pointed it out, I could both see and hear the water flooding over stones. “We can get a refill there.”

  I shook the last few drops of water into my mouth, then followed Dunbar around the hill.

  The stream was narrow and rippling over a bed of colored pebbles. On the far side a ewe was lying on her side at the foot of a rocky slope. She was a stunted specimen, clearly not one of the laird’s precious English Cheviots, and mewling pathetically to herself. As we approached, she tried to get up, but one of her forelegs gave way beneath her on the stony ground.

  “She must have skidded down those rocks there and broken her leg,” said Dunbar, his sharp eyes catching the telltale signs of the animal’s fall. He pointed to the scrape down the hill, and I looked at it carefully, promising myself to remember how it looked.

  We crossed the stream slowly, not wishing to frighten the ewe any more than was necessary.

  “She’s been trying to crawl the rest of the way to the stream,” I said, and was pleased when Dunbar nodded.

  “Aye—she must have been separated from the flock when they were driven off by the burning,” said Dunbar. “And a ewe makes a poor rogue when left to fend for herself.”

  “Aye, they’re liable to panic at the slightest thing, even at the best of times,” I agreed. “It’s a shame to let her suffer.”

  “That’s soon taken care of,” said Dunbar, pulling his knife from his stocking. Kneeling down beside the miserable creature, he pulled her head back and in a quick, easy motion drew the blade cleanly across her throat. The sheep twitched a few moments as the blood gushed from her wound, then was still.

  “No more pain for the sheep and a fine supper for us,” Dunbar said, hoisting her onto his shoulder. “This day’s taken a better turn than I looked for.”

  I filled both our canteens, and we were ready to continue on.

  The thought of hot, juicy mutton put a fresh spring in my step. Even with Dunbar carrying the heavy sheep, our trek back to the Rogue’s lair seemed to take only half the time as our outward journey had. Birds sang overhead with gusto, as if telling us we’d nothing to fear.

  We walked through a stream to lose any possible trackers and stayed on the rocks as often as we could—harder going than walking in dirt but better to fool any followers, so Dunbar told me. And that was how we made our roguish way back to camp.

  Once at the cave, Dunbar skinned the sheep and cut the meat into strips in half the time it would have taken me, farmer’s son though I was. He fixed the joints of mutton to sticks, and we roasted them over a blazing peat fire inside the cave as soon as it was dark so that no one could see the smoke.

  Shadows danced around the cave as we ate, but they were comforting shadows. Familiar. And after all the hardships of the last few days, that mutton was the most delicious meal I’d ever tasted, for all that it came from one of our scrawny Highland ewes and had no seasoning other than hunger to recommend it.

  “Ye did well today,” Dunbar said, using the back of his hand to wipe grease from his chin. “If ye hadna been watching my back, that villain might have pricked me with his wee knife, and then I’d have had to kill them both.”

  “They would have deserved it,” I said. Even in the shadowy cave I could see him smile.

  “Aye, but then I’d have had the law down on my head for sure. As things stand, I do little enough harm with my poaching and whisky, but killing a man would make me more than a nuisance. It would take me from rogue to criminal. And the taking of a man’s life is a scar that heals hard. I did enough of it in the king’s army to know.” Now his face was solemn, drawn down, the sharp planes of his cheeks darkened.

  He reached for his whisky jug and yanked out the stopper with a sharp pop. Throwing back a hearty swig, he wiped the neck of the jug with his sleeve, then offered it to me. “We’ll drink together like comrades after a battle.”

  I took it from him and raised it to my lips. I was wary of the Rogue’s personal brew, and Pa had never let us drink whisky except once to wet our lips at Mother’s funeral and again at our celebration of the victory over the laird. But I couldn’t show any want of courage, not now, when Dunbar was making a gesture of friendship. I needed that friendship. If he thought himself my friend, he would offer help. I took as big a mouthful as I dared and swallowed.

  The liquor blazed down my throat and settled in my stomach like a bonfire. I gulped hard, almost dropping the jug. I prayed silently that the mutton I’d eaten would stay put.

  Dunbar chuckled and took the jug out of my hands. “That was a giant’s dram you put away there,” he said. “Next time just take a sip so there’s some left for me.”

  He took another swallow and sighed contentedly. “This is mor
e whisky than we ever got after a real battle,” he said. “And it’s got more bite too.”

  I leaned back against the wall. My head was going slightly muzzy, even after just one long drink. I heard myself saying, “So, ye fought at Waterloo.”

  He smiled into the darkening cave. “Aye, that’s a fine tale and true. I never got Napoleon in my sights, though,” he added with a wink. The firelight flickering over his face made him look more roguish than ever.

  “Tell me about it, then.” Was that my voice, so soft and yearning?

  “Boys always want to hear about battles,” he said with a chuckle, “but if ye’ve the sense God gave a mouse, ye’ll steer clear of them.” He gave me the jug and let me have a couple more sips before he took it back. Then he leaned forward and began his story.

  “I was with Gordon’s Highlanders, as rough and foul-mouthed a pack of fighting men as ye’ll ever meet. Drawn up along a ridge in Belgium we were, with Napoleon’s army in all their finery lined up on the other side of the valley.

  “I remember the French cannon booming all through the morning, iron balls tearing through our ranks and ripping men limb from limb. Our Scots cavalry silenced them for a while, but not for long. Eventually we were ordered to fall back to the far side of the ridge so we’d have some shelter from the guns.

  “The French thought we were running away, so Marshall Ney mustered the whole of Boney’s cavalry to come after us. Ten thousand strong they were: lancers, hussars, cuirassiers and all. They were hoping to catch us by our breeks and give us a good hiding.”

  “Never!” I said.

  He frowned slightly at the interruption and continued. “‘Form square!’ came the order. Aye, the square—that was how we were trained to stand against cavalry. A big jagged square we made, three ranks on each side, our bayonets bristling like thorns on a hedge.