At Laigmhor, the kitchen drowsed on warmly: Snap and Ginger slept peacefully atop the oven; the clock tick-tocked on the mantelshelf; somewhere behind the skirting-boards a mouse scurried among the plaster. But the things Fergus was doing to Kirsteen were drowning out all her usual senses. All she heard was his harsh, quick breathing, his lilting endearments. She stroked his thick dark hair, her love for him meeting and whirling with her passions. He had pulled the zinc tub away from the fire and the rug was soft and warm. For a moment she saw the shadows leaping about the ceiling then he pulled her down and in towards him; and her eyes closed, driving another of her senses inwards. In his rough search for fulfilment he brought her both pleasure and pain, so deep inside that she could hardly distinguish one from the other. Somewhere, in the world outside, a plane pulsated, robbing the night of silence; then it was gone; and the island dreamt on undisturbed.
Kirsteen felt the mist of tears in her eyes and she held his head against her breasts. ‘My Fergus,’ she whispered, ‘tonight we have made a child. At this very minute our baby is being conceived.’
He looked at her for a long moment, cupping her chin in his hand, his black eyes alight with his love for her. ‘I had thought that Shona was the only one in the household with a fancy to her imagination. I can see all that folklore you are hearing at the ceilidhs is getting at you too.’
But her smile was full of conviction. ‘You wait and see . . . I’ll give you the second of those five sons I promised . . .’ She giggled. ‘In fact – just to spite you I might have twins – if Alick and Mary can do it, then so can I.’
Somewhere in the distance the German bomber crashed, sending shock waves through the glen. The soft breath of the wind carried mere ghostly echoes of the sound, but they were unusual enough for Fergus to say uneasily, ‘What the hell was that . . .? I wonder . . . did you hear a plane a whily back?’
‘Yes, but . . .’
A sudden high eerie wailing just outside the door made them both scramble quickly to their feet. Kirsteen wrapped herself into her woollen dressing-gown while Fergus, angry at the interruption, whatever it was, quickly made himself decent. He composed himself for a few moments, then wrenched open the door to find Dodie, the island eccentric, standing outside. Dodie lived a lonely spartan existence in his tiny isolated cottage on the slopes of Sgurr nan Ruadh and it wasn’t unusual to see him on any part of the island, day or night. He was a simple soft-hearted creature, as much a part of Rhanna as the very soil itself. Childlike in his innocence he was unable to understand the complicated natures of those around him and was very easily hurt. He was so introverted that he would come to a house only if invited, and something momentous indeed must have happened to make him stand and wail for help outside Laigmhor’s door. He was a sorry sight to see, weeping into his big calloused hands, his stooped shoulders shuddering with long drawn-out sobs. He was a bedraggled, unhappy spectacle, and Fergus, who had a soft spot for Dodie and who also admired the way he worked so hard to provide the simple necessities for himself, said kindly, ‘Och, c’mon, now, man, what ails you?’
Dodie looked pathetically forlorn and so afraid it was a long moment before he said in a whisper of embarrassment, ‘Ach, Mr McKenzie, it’s feart I am! I was just out lookin’ for Ealasaid when one o’ them airy-plane things swooped low over the moor like a damt great eagle and near took my head off. I started to run but it ran after me and . . . just as I was coming over the glen it came right round the hill so low I could hear the whistle of it in my eardrums. I’m not knowing a thing about airy-planes or the war and nobody is ever telling me anything . . . and . . . and Ealasaid’s out there and I’m too feart to go and look for her. It’s ashamed I am just!’
‘Ealasaid can take care of herself,’ Fergus soothed, knowing how much Dodie loved his wanderlust cow. ‘Come you in now and Kirsteen will make you a bite to eat.’
Just then Shona and Babbie came piling down to the kitchen.
‘I thought I heard thunder,’ Babbie said breathlessly, ‘but there’s hardly a cloud in the sky. Is it always as quiet as this on Rhanna?’ She was quietly pleased that Fergus was standing with his arm protectively around Kirsteen’s slender shoulders. It was obvious the pair had made up their differences.
‘I may be wrong but I’m sure I heard the roar of a plane just minutes ago,’ Shona said, her blue eyes big in her pale face.
‘I think we heard it too,’ Kirsteen faltered, her face reddening.
They all jumped at the sudden appearance of Bob in the kitchen. His gnarled fingers were bunched on the bone handle of his shepherd’s crook and he wasted no time with pretty words of apology. He had witnessed the spectacle of the bomber heading for almost certain destruction on Ben Machrie. ‘Are you deaf, man?’ he asked Fergus sarcastically. ‘The damt thing must have come right over Laigmhor! It came down so low it rattled the dishes on my dresser!’
Before Fergus could answer, the sound of the kirk bell could be heard pealing over the countryside. It was pulled by Righ nan Dul who, from his elevated position on the windswept cliffs of Port Rum Point, had seen the bomber juddering round the village of Portcull.
For a long incredulous moment he had watched it embracing the slopes of the mountains, heading for a crash on the quietly menacing slopes of Ben Machrie. ‘Jesus – God – St Michael! Help us all!’ he had muttered aloud to all those unseen guardians of life, and then taken off, limping hurriedly down the spiral stairs to emerge atop the smooth, cropped turf of the Point. To the left of it lay the needles of the Sgor Creags – grey, jostling pinnacles of treachery, the swish of the sea deceptively peaceful in its picturesque frothing round the slimy, barnacle-encrusted rocks. To the right of it lay the natural little harbour of Portcull, protected from the worst weather by the long finger of Port Rum Point. Righ had scuttled along the path to the kirk, which sat starkly aloof at the top of the peninsula. With its creaking elms and black, huddled headstones casting long moon-scattered shadows, it was an eerie place, but Righ had no time to let himself be haunted by monuments to the dead. His thoughts had been for the living and he had given the gate a mighty push that had set it creaking on its rusty hinges. The kirk was never locked. On Rhanna people seldom locked anything and to the Bible-thumping Reverend John Gray an ever-open kirk door meant an ever-available sanctum to repentant sinners wanting to unburden themselves to the Lord.
For several minutes Righ kept doggedly at the ropes, until finally, with aching arms, he withdrew from the kirk and hobbled away through the other old gate set into the wall atop the Hillock. He emerged to find little black blobs were scurrying from all quarters, hastily pulling outdoor clothes over night attire. The tall figure of John Gray came rushing from the Manse, followed closely by his small dumpy wife who was inserting her false teeth as she ran. No catastrophe on earth was worth the price of her dignity, to which she clung fiercely on an island where many of the older generation wore false teeth only on Sundays or at funerals.
Even while Righ was delivering his message to the community straggled out on the slopes of the Hillock, the bell he had recently rung was finding its echo all over the island. It was a pre-arranged signal to everyone that something connected with war had come to Rhanna.
At Portvoynachan, four miles to the east, Mrs Jemima Sugden, the elderly schoolmistress of the tiny school in that area, was vigorously ringing a huge handbell though she had no earthly idea what was happening. Elsewhere on the island general confusion followed, but after a few bewildering minutes a certain order began to emerge as the Home Guard assembled at their various posts to await orders. The efficiency of the Home Guard was hampered somewhat by those members who had come staggering out of the Headquarters in a merry drunken heap, but in the excitement of the moment, no one minded too much. Left behind was Annack Gow who sat with her arms lovingly entwined round the cask of malt, her head resting on the barrel in a manner that allowed her generous nose to inhale unhindered the strong sweet fumes of the Uisge-beatha.
Chapter Six
Tom and Mamie Johnston of Croynachan, who had been wakened rudely by the dreadful tearing of metal ripping through earth, were hardly able to believe their eyes when they rushed out to see bits of a German bomber strewn over their field.
‘Don’t panic, mo ghaoil,’ Tom soothed his wife. ‘It’s only bits of an old aeroplane.’
‘A German plane,’ Mamie said faintly, quickly following her husband who had rushed into the kitchen to fetch his shotgun.
‘You stay with the bairns,’ he told Mamie. ‘Lock all the doors and open them only to the neighbours or myself when I get back.’
Tom saddled his horse and galloped to Croft na Beinn, then on to the tiny clachan of Croy, quickly and efficiently gathering together every able-bodied man.
But the people of Nigg had no need of warning bells to let them know that something unusual had happened. Old Madam Balfour of Bumbreddie was standing on top of the high tower of her gloomy old house, lustily banging a dinner gong and shouting at the top of her high-pitched, hysterical voice. Her bedroom lay at the top of the big square tower and the German bomber on its third sweep round the island had flown at such a low altitude she had fully imagined it was coming in on top of her. With her only son, Scott, the young laird of Burnbreddie, fighting with the British Army somewhere in Greece, she felt vulnerable and abandoned despite the fact that she had the companionship of Rena, her very able daughter-in-law. Having screamed to Rena that the house was under air-attack she had made a very agile flight to the roof to bang her gong and shriek. Rena’s two children, hearing their grandmother conducting herself in a manner that would have frightened the Uisga Hags themselves, began to scream also and Rena had her hands full trying to soothe everyone.
But Righ had dispatched several members of the bicycle brigade to places that were bereft of menfolk, and before long, frightened women and children were receiving welcome comfort. Meanwhile, other squads of bicycles and horses, gathering on their way the various little bands of men assembled at their posts, were moving up to the eastern end of the island, from where the sound of the crash was thought to have come.
The sight of the twisted wreckage of the plane near Croynachan brought gasps of incredulity from all who gazed upon it. The starboard wing lay in the Johnstons’ field, and the stench of red-hot metal oozed from the exhaust manifold, mingling with the sharp air washing over the moors. Ragged ailerons, trim tabs, the tail wheel and tail gun littered the ground. The fin had snapped from the fuselage in a ragged fracture, and the rudder hung by mere scraps of material. The bold, sharp symbol of the swastika gaped mockingly, looking terrifyingly out of place in the wild, peaceful stretches of the Muir of Rhanna. There was no denying it: the Germans were actually on Rhanna and the evidence was there for all to see.
As the islanders bore down on the plane like a horde of ants, excitement made them revert to their native Gaelic, yet caution hushed their voices when the men spread out over the moors, their steps taking them warily through the snagging clumps of gorse. Out here in the open a keen little wind moaned in from the sea and wailed softly around the cloisters of the old Abbey ruins situated near Dunuaigh, the Hill of the Tomb. It was a lost, lonely place and in normal circumstances the islanders gave it a wide berth, even in daytime. Now, in the hushed shadows of night, it brought chilling fears to the more superstitious, magnified a thousandfold by the thought that Nazi Germans might be lurking among the time-worn stones.
A few minutes later Fergus and Bob arrived with Dodie, who had been so anxious about his cow that Fergus had allowed him to come. As Fergus and Bob wandered off to join the men, Dodie stared at the wrecked plane with joy, his tall ungainly figure a looming spectre at the feast. His fear of the Germans forgotten, he looked lovingly and longingly at the tail piece with its swastika plainly visible in the light of the moon peeping round the shoulders of Ben Madoch. “Tis nice colours on it,’ he whispered childishly. ‘A nice pattern so it is.’ But no one heard him, concentrating as they were on the search that was taking place somewhere in the darkness below.
It was Fergus who found Jon Jodl, sitting on the ground, huddled against a mossy boulder, staring dreamily out over the wild, dark moors.
‘Up you get now, man,’ Fergus said quietly. ‘You will not be hurt if you do just as you are told.’
Jon didn’t understand a word, but he knew what was expected of him and slowly unwound himself from his parachute and got to his feet.
In the pale glimmering of the moon’s light Fergus saw the strained white face of the youth and the German flying suit stained with vomit. ‘You are just a laddie and ill by the look of you,’ Fergus said, compassion making his voice soft. He hadn’t been able to imagine what his feelings would be coming face to face with a German. He had expected to feel some sort of resentment, or anger, and had good reason to feel both because of the indirect sufferings that war had brought to his own family. But the slim boyish figure of Jon Jodl, stamped with the vulnerability of the young, brought only feelings of pity. Yet . . . this was the Enemy. God alone knew what lay in the mind behind the face of the boy!
Fergus’s thoughts were interrupted by the others, arriving on the scene in a clamour of excited Gaelic. Jon swayed on his feet and Doctor Lachlan McLachlan strode over. ‘Get away from him!’ he ordered sharply. ‘Can’t you see the laddie is in a state of shock? He needs all the air he can get! Let me examine him!’
Some distance away the keen air of morning was bringing Tam quickly to his senses but he wasn’t able to join the search for the Uisge-beatha that had filled his bladder, and, handing his shotgun to Jock the Ploughman, he stepped behind a bush – and tripped over Ernst Foch lying in the heather. A guttural roar of surprise split the morning asunder as Ernst sprang to his feet and a highly indignant Nazi and a white-faced terrified Gael faced each other.
‘It’s sorry I am indeed, just!’ Tam gabbled, forgetting for a moment that he was addressing the Enemy. He stood transfixed, unable even to make the effort of doing up his fly.
A stream of islanders soon descended and Ernst was then bundled into a trap beside Jon Jodl. ‘Jon!’ Ernst cried, glad to see one of his own kind. ‘You came down safely? I am glad.’ His eyes raked the moors. He wondered where Zeitler and Anton had landed, there seemed to be no sign of them.
Everyone else was wondering the same thing. But as the various search parties drifted back to the scene of the crash, in the midst of one group was the bull-headed Zeitler, dragging his feet and scowling when he was shoved unceremoniously into the trap beside his companions.
The islanders stood around talking in subdued tones while they observed the captives with dismay. They had been so intent on the search that no one had given a thought about a place suitable enough in which to keep German prisoners.
‘It would be fine if we could just chain them up in the Abbey ruins till help arrives from the mainland,’ Ranald suggested hopefully, his ideas influenced by the adventure stories he read so avidly. ‘I was reading a war book about prisoners put in shackles in a cellar and fed on only bread and water.’
Tom Johnston snorted and said sarcastically, ‘Ay, and that was maybe taking place away back in the Dark Ages. They are human beings though they are Jerries and must be treated with respect.’
Doctor Lachlan McLachlan stamped impatiently, his compassionate brown eyes fixed on the wearily crumpled figure of Jon Jodl. ‘I want to see to that lad and I don’t care if I have to take him back to my house to do it! I have a spare room . . . Phebie always has it ready,’ he added quietly, and Fergus looked at him admiringly.
‘Hold on! I’m coming! I will take them into my house!’ the Reverend John Gray yelled as he burst on to the scene. He was dishevelled and dirty and a little stubble of beard made his face look haggard, even in moonlight. Rhanna, used to a neatly-turned-out minister with never a hair out of place, stared as one man. ‘I was helping with the search,’ he explained with dignity. ‘And I got rather off the beaten track. I am not used to the moors, but the Lord guid
ed me.’ He looked at his flock sternly. ‘We should all have faith in him. He is our comfort and stay.’
The men muttered and one or two bowed their heads but old Bob said something in Gaelic and the minister glared at him. He had never troubled to learn the native tongue and was continually frustrated by the dour Gaels who took every opportunity to make him feel an interloper, though he had been preaching on the island for many years.
‘These men will be safe in my house,’ he continued. ‘God will guide us all to His way. Their stay will be brief but I would not be doing my duty if I didn’t try to nourish their thoughts with the love of God . . . take their minds off war . . . I can speak a little German, we will understand each other.’
A gleam came into the eyes of the gathering. What could be better for the enemy than a day or two of bible-thumping under the minister’s roof? He would be in his glory trying to save the Germans’ souls, and they would be only too anxious to save their sanity by getting off the island the minute they could.
‘Ach, it’s a good man you are just,’ Angus said solicitously.
Bob’s weathered face broke into a mocking smile. ‘Ay, good to be learning the German but never a word o’ the Gaelic.’
The full implication of his words hit home. Everyone looked at each other quizzically and Fergus rapped out impatiently, ‘Why don’t you put your knowledge to good use, Mr Gray, and ask these men a few questions? There’s a lot we would like to be knowing.’
‘Hmm, yes, you’re quite right of course,’ the Reverend Gray muttered immediately, ‘but I don’t think we will find out very much. Nevertheless, I’ll lend my hand to it, with God’s guidance, of course.’
Ernst gave surly replies to ‘the interrogation’, repeating his name, rank and serial number so many times that even the minister’s patience began to wane.
‘It’s as I told you,’ he said to Fergus finally. ‘He will tell me nothing of his mission but I gather he is concerned about his Commander.’
Rhanna at War Page 7
