Alasdair Burns allowed the jubilant men to make a couple of turns about the room before struggling free from their grasp and slipping to the ground when he neared Wyatt.
‘It’s great news,’ agreed Alasdair Burns when Wyatt reached him with his own congratulations, but the prospective factor’s solemn expression belied the words and as quickly as he could he drew Wyatt to one side, saying quietly: ‘I need to talk to you, Wyatt. Away from here.’
There had to be something seriously wrong for a man to remain unsmiling and serious at a time like this, and Wyatt led Alasdair Burns clear of the happy crowd as swiftly as he could. Having any form of conversation inside the schoolroom was out of the question. Everyone there wanted to tell Alasdair Burns how happy they were for him – and for themselves.
It had begun to rain outside, but at least there were no villagers about.
‘You’ve no need to tell me something’s wrong,’ said Wyatt when they reached the road. ‘Has it to do with Garrett?’
‘Yes … but Eneas Ross hasn’t made things any easier for himself.’ Alasdair Burns cuffed rain from around his mouth. ‘Garrett took a small party of soldiers up to the Ross place, apparently to serve a clearance order on Eneas. Ross and his friends beat the soldiers off, and now they’re claiming a great victory. Eneas has sent a call out for all Highlanders to join him and chase the Irish soldiers out of the mountains – and then drive the sheep out after them.’
‘When did Garrett take the soldiers up there? He was told by Charles Graham there were to be no more clearances.’
‘It seems Garrett didn’t agree. He tried to serve the clearance notice the day you set off to see Coll Kennedy again. I think this was one he was determined to serve, Wyatt. It’s his way of getting back at you.’
‘Was anyone hurt in this skirmish?’ Wyatt was deeply concerned. It was such an incident as this he had been trying so hard to prevent. Now, just when it seemed the Highlanders’ cause had been recognised – on the Kilmalie estate, at least – John Garrett and Eneas Ross had between them managed to undo much of the good that had been achieved.
‘I don’t know.’ Alasdair Burns shrugged his shoulders apologetically. ‘Eneas Ross has been celebrating the Highlanders’ “victory” ever since it happened. He’d give a man the story of Killicrankie and swear it happened the day the soldiers came calling on him. The Highlanders have come off best in a skirmish with a handful of soldiers and they’re convinced they’ve defeated the whole army. They are in a dangerous state of mind – and the danger is to Ross and his family.’
‘You’ll make a wise factor, Alasdair. Get some rest now. I’ll send a letter to Eneas – Mairi can read it to him. First thing in the morning I’ll go to Fort William. In the mean time pray I’m not too late to stop the Irish colonel teaching Eneas Ross just how wrong he is.’
Fifty
FOR LIEUTENANT WILLIAM Connor this was his first ‘overseas’ posting. He had joined the Irish regiment only eighteen months before. The son of a sound landowning family, he was following in the footsteps of his father who had been a major in the Irish 27th Regiment during the Peninsular campaign.
William Connor was by nature a studious young man, his thirst being for knowledge rather than for the blood of an enemy. Indeed, he had no enemies – and few friends. He was also an only child, so the mantle of his father’s hopes and ambitions could not be draped about the shoulders of a brother. Destiny – and Major Connor – had chosen a military career for William.
Army life meant that William Connor was mixing with men of a coarser nature than he would have otherwise have chosen to be his companions. This was not too bothersome while the regiment was in barracks in Dublin, where there was a full social life to be enjoyed. Young men of ‘good’ families were welcome in most of the fashionable salons in the city.
Then part of the Irish regiment was suddenly uprooted and sent to Glasgow. The good life came to an end overnight. For generations the soldiers of Ireland and Scotland had been used to put down troubles in each other’s land. The methods they used would outrage and alienate the population of both lands for many years to come. Lieutenant Connor and his brother officers were no longer welcome guests at civic and private functions. Instead they were shunned by society and derided by the populace whenever they marched out of the barracks where they were billeted.
It came as almost a relief when the Irish soldiers were ordered to Fort William. They were to deal with what was officially described as ‘dangerous restlessness’ in Highland areas where legitimate clearances were being carried out.
The Irish soldiers camped on land just outside the Highland town and were kept busy escorting factors and sheriff’s men engaged in serving clearance orders on Highland tenants.
It was not work that particularly appealed to William Connor. He had too sensitive a nature to remain unaffected by the plight of women and children turned out of homes which were then destroyed behind them. Nevertheless, he enjoyed the awesome vastness of the Highlands and the breathtaking beauty of the mountains. He particularly enjoyed taking a small party on patrol with no fixed orders and only a loosely defined route to follow.
William Connor was on such a patrol in the mountains between Loch Eil and Loch Arkaig, following the course of a fast-running mountain river. There was a strong hint of rain in the air, but it had held off so far and the youthful lieutenant was enjoying the morning – until he saw John Garrett riding towards him.
Of all the clearances he had been obliged to witness, William Connor disliked those ordered by Garrett most of all. The Highlanders in the mountains lived in abject poverty. Perhaps they should be grateful to be evicted and given the opportunity to make a new life somewhere else. This did not excuse Garrett’s methods. He seemed determined to cause maximum distress and humility to the unfortunate cottars.
‘I’d expected to meet up with you much earlier than this. I was led to believe you’d be at Loch Arkaig by now.’ John Garrett’s greeting bordered on rudeness.
‘I didn’t realise I was marching to the clock, Mr Garrett. Now you have found me, is there something you want?’
‘Yes. I’ve a clearance order to serve on a Kilmalie tenant. He’s likely to cause trouble. I want your assistance.’
‘It seems a great many Kilmalie tenants are “likely to cause trouble”. Could it have anything to do with your manner towards them?’
‘That remark smacks of impertinence, Lieutenant Connor. Are you going to help me serve this clearance order, or do I return to your colonel and tell him you refused?’
It was a bluff. Colonel Fitzpatrick, the officer commanding the Irish soldiers, had been told by the sheriff-substitute that Garrett no longer had the authority to order clearances and was likely to be replaced in the near future. With his removal the need for the Army would be gone. The Irish soldiers were at this very moment preparing to leave Fort William, but the young lieutenant knew nothing of this. When he and his platoon had set off on patrol John Garrett was still one of the most important men in the district.
‘Have you brought no constables with you?’ The young Irish officer was uncertain of the law governing these clearances, but always before there had been constables or sheriff’s officers present.
‘No. I expect real trouble from this man. If some of his friends are present, they’re likely to be armed. This is a task for the Army, not for unarmed officials.’
The Irish soldiers were listening, and their expressions showed the excitement they felt. They had joined the Army to fight. Who they fought was of no great importance.
‘Very well. Where does this tenant live?’
‘Over there.’ John Garrett pointed to where the mountains rose high to the south. ‘There’s a useful pass no more than half a mile ahead.’
John Garrett was jubilant. He knew he was unlikely to be factor of the Kilmalie estate for very much longer. Before he left he was determined to clear Eneas Ross from the estate. He had been given details of proposed army patrols more th
an a week before. It was fortunate for him that this patrol was led by the regiment’s most inexperienced and junior officer. A more senior man might have asked some awkward question, or even refused to take action without the written authority of his commanding officer.
Some of the eagerness felt by the soldiers waned when the Kilmalie factor led them on a steep climb to the high lands where the Ross family had its home and it began to rain. However, half an hour’s rest at the top restored at least some of their enthusiasm. The short delay did not suit the mood of the impatient factor, but he curbed his irritation. He wanted nothing to go wrong with his plans now.
The twenty soldiers marched towards the Ross croft in single file. The holding had been in view for some time, but they had seen no movement of any kind. It was so quiet that their leader, a corporal of many years’ service, began to get an uneasy feeling. Quickening his pace, he joined the officer leading the party and suggested the men should halt to load their muskets before approaching any closer to the Highland croft.
No.’ Lieutenant Connor spoke after some hesitation. ‘If we stop now and load our guns in full view of the house, it would be unduly provocative. In spite of what Factor Garrett has said, I do not anticipate trouble. We’ve never had any before; I doubt if today will be any different.’
Corporal Allen was not reassured. ‘There’s something here I don’t like, sir. It’s too quiet by far. At least halt the men and let me go up to the house alone first.’
Again Lieutenant Connor declined to accept the corporal’s advice. ‘We’ll march up to the house together, Corporal. A show of strength. There’s no Highland cottar would dare attack twenty of Her Majesty’s soldiers going about their lawful business. Fall back with the men, if you please.’
Lieutenant William Connor’s words were no more than half a minute old when he was proved tragically and dramatically wrong.
The soldiers were less than fifty paces from the low wall surrounding Eneas Ross’s croft when there came a loud shout. The word was in Gaelic – and its effect immediate. A number of men, possibly as many as seventy or eighty, suddenly rose from behind the wall, yelling war-cries that had once been sufficient in themselves to carry the field of battle. Some of the men brandished ancient claymores, others held cudgels. A few, no more than eight, peered at the Irish soldiers along the barrels of a wide variety of firearms.
The soldiers came to a halt, and Corporal Allen looked to the young lieutenant, awaiting an order. It never came. Lieutenant William Connor stood as though turned to stone. The sudden appearance of the Highlanders had released a paralysing fear that gripped his mind and body. He remained rigid as another shout rose above the taunting ‘war-cries’. William Connor saw powder-smoke erupt from pan and barrel – and it was the last thing he ever saw. A musket-ball ricocheted from the bridge of his nose and entered his head, lodging just beneath his brain. On its way it severed the optic nerve. The young lieutenant dropped to his knees, still conscious but totally blinded.
Behind him three of the Irish soldiers had also been felled by Highland musket-balls. One rose to a knee immediately, but the other two stayed down.
Corporal Allen waited no longer. He shouted for the infantrymen to load their weapons. It was not an operation that could be hurried, and it was almost a full minute before the percussion muskets were ready to be fired. The Highlanders were speedier and had already fired a second ragged volley. This time they had loaded their ancient flintlocks hurriedly and their only success was an almost-spent musket-ball which struck John Garrett’s horse, causing it to rear dangerously close to the soldiers.
William Connor had begun to scream now. A one-note hymn to pain that was unnerving.
‘You ready?’ Corporal Allen called to his men and received nods of confirmation.
‘Right. Take aim – and choose your targets carefully.’ The corporal set an example and spoke with his cheek resting against the stock of his musket. Raising his face, he called: ‘Factor! Get that bloody horse out of the way before my men shoot him!’
John Garrett brought his horse under a form of control and drove him in a wide arc to the rear of the soldiers.
‘Take aim … fire!’ The order was marginally softer than the sound of the shots. Only three of the muskets fired, the corporal’s and two others. Percussion weapons were notoriously unreliable in wet weather.
None of the Highlanders was hit, but the musket-balls passed close enough to make the Scotsmen duck from view quickly.
Corporal Allen was experienced enough to know that in these conditions his men could not hope to rout the Highlanders. He ordered the men to pick up their fallen comrades and quit the scene of the one-sided battle. He himself took the arm of the lieutenant. Although bleeding profusely from his wound, William Connor was miraculously still capable of walking.
His horse now under control, John Garrett’s anger spilled over. ‘What are you doing? You’re not going to let a handful of ragged Highlanders chase you off? You came here to help me serve a clearance notice. You can’t quit before it’s done.’
‘You want it served, you get on and do it yourself, Factor. If I get back to camp with the men I’ve got left, I’ll have succeeded in my duty.’
‘What sort of soldiers are you? I thought you could fight! A few shots and you’re running home with your tail between your legs….’
‘If you’ve a complaint, make it in person to the colonel.’ The corporal pulled William Connor roughly to his feet as he tried to sink to his knees, blood flicking from his face as his head jerked back.
‘You see this?’ There was scarcely controlled anger in the corporal’s voice. ‘Lieutenant Connor’s not yet twenty and he’s got a musket-ball in his brain. For what? To save the country from some invader? Or to free some poor suffering people who can’t help themselves? No. He’s been shot because you want to make a few extra shillings for some overweight landlord who’s probably never known more than a moment’s want or discomfort in his life. On your way, Factor. My musket’s not loaded, but I’ve still got a sharp bayonet to find out the colour of your blood.’
At that moment there was a roar of triumph from the Highlanders as they rose from behind the wall and saw the Irish soldiers in retreat. They swarmed over the wall, brandishing their weapons and yelling wildly.
‘Fix bayonets!’ Corporal Allen shouted the order as he dropped Lieutenant Connor unceremoniously to the ground and set an example.
The other Irish soldiers followed suit, and as John Garrett kneed his horse clear Corporal Allen called: ‘Form twos facing the enemy. Front rank kneeling, rear rank standing.’
It was a pitifully small force, eight men in each rank, with Corporal Allen standing two paces in the van, yet the quiet discipline of the soldiers who waited for them, bayonets at the ready, caused the Highlanders’ charge to falter and come to a halt before they had covered half the distance from the cot.
One of the Highlanders threw up his musket and aimed at the soldiers. Two others followed his example; but the weather had taken its toll on Scots guns, too. The sound of three clicks carried to the ears of the soldiers.
After a few minutes of noisy uncertainty, one of the Highlanders said, in Gaelic: ‘There’s no sense running on to the soldiers’ bayonets. We’ve won the day. Let them go.’
There were one or two dissenters, but the Highlanders began to back away towards the croft, some of them shouting obscenities at the soldiers as they went.
Slinging the now unconscious lieutenant across his shoulders, Corporal Allen ordered the men to pick up the wounded men and march off, towards Fort William.
Fifty-one
COLONEL FITZPATRICK LISTENED patiently and politely to Wyatt’s plea on behalf of the Highlanders. All the while he spoke officers were coming in to report men ready to march and ammunition issued. Once a messenger arrived from ‘the advanced party’ with a note for the commanding officer.
Despairingly, Wyatt gave up in mid-sentence. It was apparent that nothing he said
was making any difference. He had arrived at the camp of the Irish soldiers as they were moving out against the Highlanders. The messages reaching the colonel’s tent made it apparent that other men had left Fort William very much earlier.
Seated at a table in his tent, the commanding officer looked up from the note he was scribbling. ‘I am listening, Jamieson. Do go on.’
Wyatt shook his head. ‘I’m wasting my breath. We both know it. I’m pleading with you to call off your action against the Highlanders, yet even as I speak you’re sending more troops into the mountains. I had hoped you might show some compassion. The clearance orders should never have been issued. Garrett’s the man you should be after, not a poor Highlander trying to cling on to the pitiful little he has.’
‘Your Factor Garrett seems to have made himself scarce, Jamieson, though I do have men out looking for him. Nevertheless, I have just had the most unhappy task of composing a letter of sympathy to a very close friend. His nineteen-year-old son is dead after being blinded by a musket-ball from a Highlander’s gun. Am I to tell him I allowed his killers to go free because the man who pulled the trigger had been unfairly treated by some factor?’
Colonel Fitzpatrick shook his head sadly. ‘I can’t tell him that – and I won’t allow my soldiers to feel their lives are worth nothing. I hope one day to lead my men into battle – real battle. Every man behind me will be carrying a loaded musket. If I’m killed in action, I’d rather the musket-ball came from the enemy lines and not my own.’
The officer sighed and laid the pen down upon the paper. ‘There are other, rather more serious implications to be considered. The corporal who brought the men back after this unfortunate skirmish reported there were approximately eighty attackers, each of whom was armed in some way or another. This might well be described as an “uprising”, Jamieson. I have no wish to exaggerate the seriousness of the incident at all; I, too, sympathise with your people. However, if the authorities in London deem it to be an uprising, you’ll have more soldiers than sheep in these hills. It will not be safe for a Highlander to show his head above a bush anywhere in the country.’
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