Journey to Enchantment

by Patricia Veryan

“But the MacTavish is not here.”

  “He’ll come back, sir. Soon or late.”

  “I see. These—er, invaders. They wore uniforms?”

  “Not the ones I saw. Forbye, it was waeful dark.”

  “Did you think to recognize any of them? A mannerism? A voice?”

  “Nae, sir. It was waeful—”

  “Dark. Yes. You may go.”

  The footman bowed and took himself off.

  Fuming, Cunningham turned to the quiet Dr. Cauldside. “Bovine idiot! One gathers that had we not chanced to come out here for you to check Delacourt, the servants would have gone on with their discreet silence until the food ran out!”

  Cauldside looked worriedly around the chaos. “It’s a fine mess. What d’ye think chanced here, Colonel?”

  Cunningham flung out of his chair and marched to stand staring out of the window, hands loosely clasped behind him. “I see only three possibilities. Either they were military, thieves, or bounty hunters. They were not military, of that I am assured. And the chances of thieves banding together to stage such a raid are extreme remote.”

  “Which leaves the bounty hunters. But who were they hunting? And what’s become o’ the family? Losh, mon, there’s seven people we’re short. D’ye take that intae account?”

  “I do.” Cunningham turned to face him. “Nine, if you count Garry and MacKie.”

  “Lord! Were they here as well?”

  “So I am informed. I think I shall lose no time in riding down to Garry House to discover if Sir Matthew returned home safe. Do you go with me?”

  “If I may.” The doctor stood. “I’ll own I’m fair gapped by the business.”

  Cunningham nodded and crossed the room with his quick, decisive stride. At the door, he paused. “By the way, doctor, I think I neglected to tell you. I have received a response to my letter to Whitehall. I know now what Ligun Doone means.”

  “Oh, do ye?” Unimpressed, the doctor muttered, “Is it important?”

  Cunningham’s lip curled. “It is to me, sir. And it will doubtless prove so to the man who laughed at us when he chose it. I fancy mine will be the longest laugh!”

  * * *

  Luck seemed to have deserted the fugitives that day. Everywhere they turned were redcoats, so that they had to constantly double back, or waste precious time hiding. Not until late afternoon had they travelled the length of Loch Ness and turned northward, passing into rugged country very difficult of passage, with soaring crags and sharp defiles, their path often crossed by hurrying burns making their impatient way to the loch. To the constant menace of the troopers was added exhaustion, so that Delacourt was hard put to it to keep in the saddle and Prudence drooped with weariness.

  Lockerbie had sent one of his men far out in the lead, and now he came galloping back, waving his arms. His name was Graham, and he was older than the others, a scrawny little man with a bitter mouth. “Redcoats,” he said, joining them. “’Fore God, but they’re everywhere! One might think Prince Charlie still hereaboots, ’stead o’ being safe away, God bless him!”

  “Maybe safe away!” said Lockerbie. “Captain…? Och, but he’s off again, puir laddie.”

  “No, I’m not,” said Delacourt, pulling his head up. “Can we hide somewhere till dark? Could we get through then?”

  Kirkpatrick, a rugged man with flaming red hair and a whimsical grin, said, “Aye—wi’ a dirk at the ready.”

  “No!” snapped Delacourt. “My actions will bring death upon none of my countrymen! Nor upon ourselves, God willing. There’s been too damned much killing!” There was a moment of uneasy silence, then Delacourt pointed to a soaring crag that threw a deep shadow over the shrubs at its base. “We may escape detection there for a space.”

  They rode into the sparse little trees and bushes. Delacourt made no move to dismount, and Lockerbie jumped from the saddle and half lifted his master down. Performing the same service for Prudence, young Jock Eldredge blushed fierily when she leaned wearily against him. He took off his drab, dyed plaid and spread it on the ground for her, and she sat down, leaning against the rock and stretching out with a sigh of thankfulness. Cole and Graham loosened girths and tended to the horses, and then they all gathered around, tired and hungry, nobody speaking for a little while.

  Delacourt seemed to have fallen asleep, and Prudence closed her eyes, praying that all this exertion might not prove too much for him. She was startled to hear him drawl coolly, “Can any of you climb?”

  Kirkpatrick answered, “I can, sir. Half mountain goat, me ma useter say.”

  “You’ll have a good view from the top of this shade-maker,” said Delacourt with his endearing smile. “D’you think you can be our lookout?”

  The redhead stood, walked up and down scanning the crag, then nodded. In another minute he was making his precarious way up the rock face. Prudence held her breath, but he had spoken truly and went on easily enough until he was lost from sight.

  Climbing a little way after him, Lockerbie relayed, “He’s lyin’ doon.”

  “Jolly good. Cole, keep your eyes open for troopers coming from the east.”

  Kirkpatrick reported the dismal news that he could see clear across the glen, and that there were several small groups of troopers who seemed to be beating the area between them and the point to the northwest that they must reach.

  “Looking fer rebels, damn them,” muttered Graham.

  “Well, they’re looking in the wrong place,” said Delacourt. “Let’s hope they’ve already searched here.”

  An hour later, however, it became apparent that the search was in fact moving in their direction. It was still light but Delacourt ordered the horses to be readied for a retreat. This plan was foiled when more soldiers approached from the east. They received adequate warning from Cole, but Prudence began to feel trapped and afraid. She was reassured when Delacourt patted her shoulder and winked at her, and then asked Lockerbie to discover whether there were any habitations in sight. Kirkpatrick was contacted and said there was only a tumbledown old croft some distance north, and no hope of concealment there.

  Delacourt nodded thoughtfully and crept over to talk with Graham. Prudence watched curiously as Lockerbie and Eldredge joined them. The other men began to give their supply of ammunition to Graham. Delacourt also appropriated Eldredge’s dull brown plaid and thrust it at the smaller man. “Here,” he said. “If you run into trouble, curl up under it and try to look like a rock.”

  Graham chuckled, threw the plaid about him, and was off. Prudence stood beside Delacourt, watching that small figure dart from one clump of shrubs to the next. He was almost out of her range of vision when from the corner of her eye she saw two troopers riding straight for the pile of boulders he had just reached. Aghast, she wrenched her gaze back to Graham, but he was nowhere to be seen. Delacourt squeezed her hand and whispered, “He’s being a rock, ma’am. Good little actor.”

  She strained her eyes, incredulous, but sure enough when the troopers were safely past she saw Graham materialize from among the boulders and scurry away.

  The time dragged and always the sound of the beaters drew terrifyingly nearer. Prudence whispered, “What is Graham aboot? What can he hope to do all alone?”

  Delacourt gave her a little-boy grin. “Wait and see.”

  After another few minutes Lockerbie came to them. “Kirkpatrick says Graham’s away again, sir.”

  “Splendid. Ready the horses. Be as quiet as you can, the troopers are almost on us.”

  The horses were prepared for riding, the inevitable sounds drowned by the ever-increasing noise the soldiers made in their search. Prudence could hear them talking now, and soon she could distinguish the words. A young English voice, sounding almost beside her, said gaily, “… and I’ll be in Paris before you!” Laughter followed, and her heart gave a great thump as a branch snapped at the edge of their little sanctuary.

  “Look there!” a trooper shouted. “That old croft, sir. I see smoke from the chimney!”


  Prudence ducked lower, Delacourt pulling her down as an officer rode up. “Damme, but you’re right! So that’s where the devil’s lurking. Mount up, you men! I think we’ve got him!”

  Another moment and they were off, with many whoops and shouts of excitement.

  Eldredge tossed Prudence up into her saddle, but Delacourt lifted a detaining hand. Lockerbie, who had returned to his listening post, came hurrying back. “Kirkpatrick says there’s still aboot ten o’ the bastards left!”

  “They’ll leave,” said Delacourt, confidently. “Wait.”

  On his last word a flurry of shots and a deeper boom rang out, the explosions causing Prudence to jump, and her mount to caper about nervously. More shouts, and then a thunder of hooves as the remaining troopers went at the gallop to join the fight.

  “Here we go!” said Delacourt.

  Kirkpatrick came down from the top of the crag in a wild scramble and sprang onto the pony Lockerbie held for him. Even as they started into the open, hoofbeats sounded behind them and Prudence jerked her head around in fright. Graham was following, another man sharing his saddle; a young man with a gaunt, bearded face, strained eyes, and a bloody bandage about one arm.

  “Flushed you out, did we?” called Delacourt. “Very well done, Graham. All right, everyone—steady now—no faster than a canter.”

  Hampered by that restraint, they rode over the open stretch of level ground. It was only beginning to be dusk and they were in full view of anyone who might come within a few hundred yards of them. The green glen was incredibly wide, or so thought Prudence, and the very cut-up country for which they were obviously heading seemed miles distant. Her nerves were stretched to the breaking point when Delacourt said, a triumphant ring to his voice, “Excelsior! I think we dare risk a gallop now!”

  Gallop they did, every heart lifting because they were done with that nerve-racking flight. Prudence soon understood why Delacourt had risked the noisier pace, for the ground began to fall away, sloping steadily downwards until they were in a deep defile where the air was dank and cold and seemed to vibrate oddly. Again, they had to slow, the terrain very rugged, threaded by tumbling burns and with all around them great boulders, soaring crags, and plunging gorges. Always the throb in the air grew until it was a roar of sound. They came around a curve, and through the gathering gloom Prudence saw a high scarp from which a sheet of water swept out like a white curtain, arcing down to join a racing flood that sped off to the west.

  Lockerbie led the way until the river narrowed, then urged his horse into the water. Following, Prudence felt Flaxen stagger to the pull of the flood. Delacourt appeared on one side of her, and Cole on the other, staying very close. One slip here would be fatal, but in this particular place the water rose no higher than their stirrups, and a moment later they were across. Still in the lead, Lockerbie rode along the climbing, rock-strewn path, his sure-footed Highland pony stepping daintily amongst the rubble. The sound of the falls was deafening, but Lockerbie went straight forward. Prudence eyed the wall of water uneasily, and as Lockerbie rode under it, Flaxen balked. Prudence kicked home her heels and the mare capitulated and followed the pony. Spray was icy against Prudence’s face. She pulled her hood closer. Only darkness lay ahead, and she shrank, frightened. A hand touched her elbow. Dimly, she saw Delacourt leaning to her, a cheerful grin on his pale face. Her heart warmed. She nodded and went on, her eyes shut tight.

  The sound was like a tangible thing now, pounding at her; icy, bruising blows. Flaxen stumbled and Prudence screamed, the sound wiped away by the uproar. The Thoroughbred recovered, and they were moving again. Imperceptibly, the noise diminished, and the air became less chill. Peeping between her lashes, Prudence saw that they had left the falls behind and now followed a broad, upward winding path. It was too dark for her to distinguish much, but they went on slowly, the horses’ hooves clattering against the solid rock.

  She glanced around and could see the outline of the following rider. Delacourt shouted in a weary but elated voice, “We’ve done it! We’re safe now, ma’am!”

  A glow appeared on the wall ahead. The path turned sharply. Lockerbie had dismounted and was leading his pony, and he vanished from sight momentarily. Then Flaxen also turned the corner and Prudence was dazzled by the flickering flames of torches blazing in heavy iron brackets, illuminating a great cavern.

  Shouts and cries of greeting rang out. Shielding her eyes against the glare, Prudence saw gradually that many men were gathered here. Everywhere was the bright flash of forbidden tartan. She saw among them the red, white, green, and black of the MacGregor; the green, black, red, and blue of MacDonell of Glengarry; the Cameron red, green, and yellow; the green, black, and blue of the MacLeod with its overchecks of red and yellow; and many more, too numerous to count. Impressions crowded her mind in those first seconds: pallets and improvised mattresses of straw lining the walls, many occupied by wounded men who lay watching, or propped on an elbow in an attempt to see more; a distant whinnying of horses, and the smell of horse on the none too pleasant air; men gathering around, raising glad, unshaven faces to scan them; the red coat of an English officer, who sat disconsolately against the wall and lifted his head to reveal a narrow face, and an expression of hopelessness that turned to horror. She thought, ‘Sidley! Good Lord!’ and was aghast because the imperturbable snob of a butler was reduced to this unkempt and dishevelled creature, incongruous in the English Captain’s uniform.

  A Highlander shouted, “Which is he? Who’s our Ligun Doone?”

  More eager shouts joined the first. Prudence glanced around. Delacourt, the immediate peril over, had relaxed at last, and was slumped over in the saddle. Behind him, Graham and his passenger were coming up, and beyond them, Kirkpatrick and Eldredge were escorted by several gaunt and fierce Highlanders, armed with the terrible two-edged broadswords called claymores, the long steel blades winking in the light of the torches.

  Lockerbie shouted, “Here he is, lads! Let’s give a yell fer him!” He waved a hand to Delacourt, and as the Highland roar rose deafeningly, the sagging Englishman fought away weakness and slid from his saddle to stand erect and summon a grin. He could see only glaring lights and the blur of many faces and was mildly surprised to hear his real name howled above the noise.

  “Delavale!”

  Like a giant among pygmies, a great Highlander clad in the MacLeod tartan shoved his way through the throng. Uneasy, Lockerbie reached out to stay him and was tossed aside. “Filthy English spy!” howled the big man.

  Before Delacourt could gather his numbed senses, or his friends rally to his aid, the giant was before him. A huge fist flailed out. Swaying dizzily, Delacourt flung up a guarding arm. It was smashed aside. A sledgehammer blow sent him hurtling into a pile of wooden chests, scattering them. He was down and rolling, to lie at last, limp and motionless on the floor of this great cavern that he had been so confident would offer them sanctuary.

  XV

  “Geoffrey!” Scarcely knowing that she screamed his name, Prudence ran forward, only to be seized and held by a frowning Cameron.

  The great Highlander stood over Delacourt’s sprawled figure, his claymore whipping upwards preparatory to the downward sweep that would finish his helpless victim.

  As fast as Prudence ran, another was before her; a thin, unkempt man wearing a rumpled red uniform, a pathetic gallantry in the charge he essayed against the young giant who shook him off as though he had been a gnat and, with one backward swipe of his fist, sent the erstwhile butler sailing back and down so that he was unconscious before he hit the floor. Doomed as his effort had been, it had delayed the murderous descent of the claymore. Even as the shouts of acclamation metamorphosed into growls of anger and dismay, Lockerbie, Eldredge, Kirkpatrick, Cole, and Graham plunged at the Highlander. It took all of them to hold him as he fought to be free.

  “Fool!” raged Lockerbie. “Damn the black and stupid heart o’ ye, Stuart MacLeod!”

  “He’s no Ligun Doone,” bellowed
the Highlander, tearing away and facing them all, claymore at the ready. “I fought him, mon tae mon, at Prestonpans! He’s a stinkin’ English Captain name o’ Delavale. That I found oot when the shell got him and I went through his pockets!”

  “Aye,” screamed Prudence, her shrill voice striking through the hubbub and creating a small well of silence. “He’s Geoffrey Delavale. An English Captain who was sore wounded at Prestonpans. And he is also Ligun Doone!” She turned on the Cameron who held her. “Let me go, you great oaf!”

  MacLeod stared at her, the beginnings of unease written on his strong, bronzed features. “Ye’re daft, woman.”

  “Then ye may call me daft, too, MacLeod,” shouted Lockerbie, mad with rage and grief. “If ye’ve killed that mon, ye’ve struck doon the best friend any hunted Scot ever had!”

  A tall, powerfully built individual, looking to be no more than fifty, but with a shock of white hair, shoved through the bewildered throng. His brilliant dark gaze flashed from the frantically struggling girl to the grim-faced Scots who held MacLeod’s might at bay to the unconscious young man at their feet. Dropping to one knee, he slid an arm under Delacourt and raised his shoulders.

  Prudence sank her teeth into the wrist of the Cameron and managed to wrench free. She ran to kneel beside Delacourt. His head sagged back as he was lifted. Blood streaked from the corners of his mouth, and he looked quite dead. She clutched one unresponsive hand and pressed it to her cheek. It was warm still. Blinded by tears, she looked at the older man pleadingly. “Dinna say he’s killed. Dinna say it,” she begged.

  “Who are ye, lassie?”

  “Prudence MacTavish. Daughter of James MacTavish of Inverness. Sir, is he—”

  “More to the point. Is this boy Ligun Doone?”

  “Yes! Yes!”

  A rumbling arose from those gathered around. A tall, shaggy-haired man, with a great black beard and flashing jet eyes, growled, “I dinna believe it! Ligun Doone’s no an Englishman! He’s—”

  “He’s an Englishman!” With the aid of a friend, Jock Campbell hobbled through the crowd. “I’m here, thanks tae his wit and courage!”