Summer of Love

by Gian Bordin

  He isn’t a coward. A coward wouldn’t have dared to oppose that big, ugly man. Maybe he is cunning the way he helped me get away, Helen’s mind protested, but she said nothing. She knew that her father, raving and ranting, would not hear her words. She was back to her unanswered question: Why had he helped them? She turned inward, stopped listening to the repeated outbursts of her father, holding Betty who, exhausted, had finally fallen asleep in her arms.

  The communal dinner that night was a somber affair. Nobody spoke. Despite being hungry, the women only played with their food. One of the two young ones who got raped suddenly rushed out of the hut, silent tears running down her cheeks. Her husband followed her immediately, his face worried. The other one still had a vacant look on her face. Her man occasionally shot her a glance, his expression a mixture of anger and loathing. Only Mary’s face was again set in stone, closed up, betraying nothing.

  At the end of the dinner, Dougal announced that from now on the men would remain in close proximity of the huts, rather than hide in the ravines, and that no woman or girl was to venture away from the shielings unless accompanied by two men.

  * * *

  In the waning light of the evening—it never gets really pitch dark in June and July at these northern latitudes—the growling bark of the dogs heralded the approach of strangers. The men readied their pistols and swords and sneaked noiselessly out of the huts.

  The dark silhouettes of four men, all wearing Highland plaids, stood out sharply against the horizon on the small rise protecting the huts from the incessant westerly winds. One of them limped badly and was supported by another. They halted.

  "Creag an Tuire!" came their battle cry. "Friend or foe?"

  "I am Dougal MacGregor! And you are Donald MacLaren," Dougal answered their call. "The last time I saw you was in Inverness. Welcome to our humble abode!"

  "Aye, Dougal MacGregor. You made it back safely."

  "Yes, just to see our clachan burned and our cattle driven away!"

  The four slowly walked down to the huts. Dougal met them halfway and embraced the limping man.

  "Come inside. You are wounded?"

  He helped him to a bench in the hut. "Woman, look at his leg!"

  Mary brought a fir candle and carefully removed the bloody cloth wrapped around Donald MacLaren’s thigh. He looked her over questioningly. "And who ripped your clothing, lady?"

  Dougal answered instead: "They got attacked and robbed by five dragoons this afternoon."

  "Ah, that must have been the same group who surprised us on the slopes of Beinn Leabhain. That’s how I got wounded."

  Mary looked up from her task, hope in her face. "Did you kill them?"

  "No, we did not."

  Visibly disappointed, she went back to cleaning the wound.

  "How did you get away then?" asked Dougal.

  "Something very strange happened. I still don’t comprehend it. We were resting behind bushes, when suddenly four dragoons with their officer and a young Campbell lad came riding down the glen."

  "Yes, that’s them all right," interrupted Dougal.

  "Anyway, we ducked for cover, but the officer must have spotted us, and they came charging. We ran down into the ravine—the only escape route—but a bullet hit me in the thigh, and I fell. I ordered the others to make a run for it. The four dragoons pursued them, while the officer stayed behind. He had his second pistol out and was aiming at me, when suddenly the Campbell lad shot him at close range—"

  "You were probably his target and he hit the officer by mistake," Dougal interrupted again. "That deceiving bugger could not even hold a pistol straight—the coward that he is!"

  "No, Dougal, you are wrong there. It was a very clean, well-aimed shot. Almost like an execution. Went into the man’s temple and out the other side."

  "Mm," mutters Dougal, waving his hand with a sneer.

  "But now it gets even stranger. The lad calmly reloads his pistol and then only checks the officer, and ties him over the horse… All done in absolute silence. He never even looked at me. Then, he tosses the officer’s pistols to me, and says calmly: "You killed him, understood?" and off he rode, after the dragoons. I was too stunned to say something, and that takes quite a bit… A very strange lad. And a Campbell of Argyle! The very people I just faced in battle! I owe him my life. I was sure to meet my maker right then. The English had his pistol trained on me and was pulling the trigger. I was lying on the ground, hardly twenty feet away… And I didn’t even thank the lad… My cousins soon came back to fetch me after they were able to shake off their pursuers in the ravine."

  As he told the story, Mary stopped tending his wound, her eyes almost taking the words off his lips. When he finished, she sighed. "The officer is dead, you said."

  "Yes, as dead as a corpse, and killed by a Campbell."

  "One down, four to go," she murmured.

  Dougal pressed out a forced laugh. "Five, woman."

  MacLaren looked questioningly from one to the other. But he did not ask what was meant. He seemed to have guessed that the women suffered more than just blows.

  As Helen listened to Donald MacLaren, cold shivers ran up her spine. Betty came to her, and she folded her arms protectively around the girl, as much to comfort her as to share her anguish. Her mother’s curse had struck like lightening, and in the most unexpected way, while her father’s correction felt like a stab in the back. For a moment, she held her breath. Betty began to tremble again. She took the girl back to the rough straw sack that they shared as mattress and lay down with her.

  * * *

  That night, holding her restless sister, sharing her plaid for warmth, sleep escaped Helen until the early morning. Her thoughts went in circles. She couldn’t understand Andrew’s actions. Why had he led the soldiers to their clachan? Why had he brought the dragoons into the shielings? Why had he helped Betty and her to get away unhurt? Why hadn’t he tried to prevent the dragoons from raping her mother and aunts, but then killed the officer in cold blood? Executed him. Wouldn’t they hang him for this? Was her father right that he hadn’t raped her because he was impotent? But why had he then helped Betty? Had he joined her attacker with the intention to rape her and then suddenly discovered that he couldn’t? The fright in his eyes hadn’t looked like the fright of shame, but rather the terror for what might happen to her. His impatient plea for her to pretend hadn’t seemed to be motivated by fright for himself, but for her. She got more and more confused.

  When the first glimmer of dawn entered the hut, she finally dozed off, only to be woken shortly afterward by the bark of the dogs. Several of the men rushed outside, pistol in hand. She heard the hollow sound of galloping hooves pounding the hard ground, first approaching, then getting dimmer again, briefly interrupted by the dry thud of a pistol shot. Only the murmur of the men outside the hut broke the silence.

  "What was that all about?" asked one of the MacLaren men.

  "I think he dropped something over there," said Donald MacLaren.

  She heard quick footsteps.

  "It’s the women’s plaids … and their brooches," shouted Dougal. Exhausted, Helen fell asleep again. Her last fleeting thought was: He brought them back. He’s still alive.

  5

  The morning after the incident, Lord Glenorchy personally interrogated everybody involved about how Lieutenant Gordon got killed. Before Andrew entered the earl’s chambers, he took deep breaths for a minute or so, willing himself to look calm and sincere. The earl’s questioning was sharp and probing. He made Andrew repeat the account for a second time, but Andrew did not get caught in any contradictions. His story was simple and told exactly what happened, except for the fact that he himself had fired the lethal shot. He had told the same to the dragoons when he had met up with them, and had rehearsed it in his mind several times since. Finally satisfied that Andrew was telling the truth, the earl ordered him to make a written report and give it to him for forwarding to the English command in Perth.

  Andrew surpr
ised himself how calm and calculating he had remained over these last twelve hours. At times he worried that he felt no remorse or regret for having killed a man in cold blood. Instead, there was just relief—relief that this callous man was no more, relief that he wasn’t consumed with hatred any longer. When he had caught up with Gordon alone in that glen, his heart black, he had acted from instinct. He had pulled his pistol, primed it, taken careful aim, and then had called out: "Gordon, look here!" And as he did so, he had seen in his mind how the man had forced Mary to the ground. Watching him slowly fall sideways off his horse, he had been surprised how small the hole in his temple was.

  After the grilling by the earl, he was summoned to report immediately to sergeant Miller who had taken command of the platoon. The infantrymen had left the castle already an hour earlier in the direction of Beinn Leabhain. Miller had waited for him to lead them back to the scene of the murder and begin a thorough search of the area. Accompanied by the four dragoons, they galloped through Killin and caught up with the infantrymen a quarter of a mile outside Achmore, where the Achmore Burn issued from the slopes of the mountain.

  Andrew led them slowly along the creek to the place where he had shot Gordon. They searched the ravine and soon found an area of disturbed ground and trampled grass on the slopes east of the creek. There were even telltale blood stains on the clay. Higher up in that direction were the shielings of the MacGregors, where early that morning, as the dawn had begun to creep over the eastern horizon, he had dropped off the women’s plaids and brooches. It still bemused him how readily the dragoons had sold him these things for three pence each. He only had to play on their superstition that keeping them might bring down the same swift passing of the terrible curse the MacGregor witch had cast on them. Didn’t it strike down the lieutenant within minutes after he had ravished her?

  The sergeant ordered his men to fan out, and they slowly advanced up the hill in a southeasterly direction, finding further clear signs of a group of people climbing higher into the hills, with three of them walking side by side, as if the one in the middle needed support. They had covered about a mile, when they reached a sizable terrace, to Andrew’s reckoning no more than half a mile above the burned-out clachan of the MacGregors.

  Not finding any further traces, the sergeant ordered half of his man and two of the dragoons down into the glen to search the cottages, while he took the rest slowly higher up toward the shielings. Andrew hadn’t counted with this eventuality. What if the MacLarens were still sheltering with the MacGregors? Wounded as he was, this was more than likely.

  They had climbed about half a mile, when one of the dragoons returned hurriedly and reported that a Campbell cavalryman had just brought a message. The fugitives had been sighted earlier that morning near Ardeonaig, four miles further along the loch, and the platoon was to march there at the double without delay to take up the pursuit. Andrew said a silent prayer of thanks. Another half mile up and they would have been in sight of the huts on the shielings.

  The search for the fugitives continued for another two days. But the MacLarens seemed to have evaporated into thin air, their scent gone cold. Andrew surmised that they probably had gone south over the mountains to Loch Earn.

  * * *

  With their punitive action completed, the English infantrymen, less their lieutenant, left for Perth to rejoin the main force. Only the four dragoons remained behind to liaise between the Earl of Breadalbane and Perth. As soon as it became known that the English had marched off, complaints came pouring in with the factor’s office of looting and plunder committed by the infantrymen on loyal subjects of the earl. The English had found it difficult to distinguish between loyal subjects and rebels, or they had simply viewed anybody wearing Highland garb as rebels. Andrew had to record the claims for forwarding to the English command in Perth. Not that this will do much good, were his thoughts as he completed the first bunch of them.

  On Andrew’s suggestion, the earl gave orders to confiscate some of the loot bought by the speculators and not yet carted or driven away, so as to compensate the injured parties at least in part. This was done to the loud and vociferous protests of these vultures, who now in turn flocked into the factor’s office to lodge their complaints with threats of going to report these confiscations to the English command. Andrew literally chased them out of the chamber where he conducted his business while at the castle, telling them to go quietly or else the earl would have them thrown into the dungeons as profiteers and buyers of stolen property.

  Few of the tenants were in a position to pay their rents. Those who had suffered the punitive sanctions of the English first hand had nothing left. But even those who had fought under the banner of the Campbells found it hard to make ends meet. So suddenly, Andrew had little to do. There was no point in trying to collect rents from people who couldn’t pay. When Dougan Graham voiced his concern about the state of affairs, Andrew reminded him of his prediction that these punitive actions would hurt the Earl as much as the tenants.

  Initially, the young man tried to read, only to find his mind drifting off, invariably meeting up with Helen. Since their traumatic encounter in the shielings, Helen was constantly on his mind. Whatever he did, he felt her presence. Repeatedly and at the most unexpected moments, he saw her frightened eyes. He might encounter one of the maids in a dark corridor, and she became Helen. He might be listening to a tenant’s complaint, and Helen’s face rose in his mind. For the first time, he admitted to himself that he loved her deeply, and he wondered about her feelings toward him. But then he also instantly conceded that it didn’t really matter, that no way would a MacGregor marry a Campbell, particularly not after what had happened.

  * * *

  Three weeks after the incident, a vague longing drew him back into the hills south of Loch Tay. He knew that it was foolish and outright dangerous to venture there alone. However, he couldn’t help it. Even if he would not see Helen, it felt good just to know her close-by. So, one early afternoon, he found himself above Lochan nan Geadas on a small promontory, a large flat rock sticking out over the dark waters fifty feet below. Under an exceptionally blue sky with only a sprinkle of small white puffs slowly floating by, he watched his grey mare graze on the succulent growth near the lake, thrilled by the serenity of the scenery, his mind at peace for the first time in weeks.

  On a cloth he arranged the various delicacies the cook had packed for his lunch. Suddenly, a rustling noise made him look to the right. Helen stood near the wall where the narrow path opened onto the rock. She wore the plaid and brooch Andrew had returned that fateful night. She looked haggard, her cheeks sunk into her face, her eyes riveted on the food, raw hunger staring from them. He lowered the chicken piece he was just going to bite into. Her eyes followed his hand.

  Softly, he called out: "Hello, Helen, may I share the food with you?"

  For a moment, she did not react. Then she looked over her shoulder down the path and approached cautiously a few steps. With an almost pleading smile, he took a chicken thigh and proffered it to her. She hesitated an instant before she took it and then crouched facing him, taking big bites, eyeing him apprehensively, ready to jump and flee. He passed her some bread. She relaxed somewhat. He watched, unable to eat himself, anguish gripping his heart. When she had reduced the thigh to its bare bone, he offered her a breast piece. "Here, take it. There’s more."

  Her eyes locked with his, she began eating it, more slowly now, seemingly enjoying its taste. He smiled at her again, and a fleeting response lit up her face for a precious instant.

  "You’ve no food left?"

  She shook her head. He put the untouched drumstick in his hand back to the remaining pieces and rummaged through his pouch, finding a wedge of cheese and honey biscuits. He was suddenly aware of the huge amount of food the cook had packed for him. After folding the cloth around it, he held it out to her, including the bottle of claret he had taken along. Again, she hesitated for a moment and looked at him bewildered before slowly taking
the cloth, but not the bottle. She got up, her eyes cast to the ground. Then she raised her gaze and for a short moment their eyes locked again before she broke contact and hurried off the promontory. Where the path disappeared behind the rock wall, she quickly looked back once more.

  He called after her: "I’ll bring more tomorrow. I’ll hide it here in a crack of the rock wall," pointing to a huge fissure at the top of the path. She nodded again, and then she was gone. Not a single word had she uttered during their brief encounter. He suddenly realized that she had never spoken to him yet. A few minutes later, he saw her herd six goats into the remains of a hut maybe a hundred feet up the glen from the lochan and barricade its entrance. Then she milked them expertly and left over the ridge, almost running. So, they were hiding the goats here, away from their huts.

  * * *

  When Helen returned to the shielings with the milk and her little packet, her mother took the cloth holding the food without a word. She didn’t want to know who had given it to her daughter, and Helen said nothing, turning away from her immediately. In the aftermath of the attack by the dragoons and the search of the area by the soldiers the following day, they had not dared to venture far in search of food, particularly not down to the glen. The trauma of the brutal rape was still in her guts. It would take a long time to heal. So, they had gone hungrier from day to day. The roots they dug and cooked up as a soup without any salt, just some herbs to spice them, could lessen the dull gnawing feeling of hunger but temporarily. Only the small children got goat milk daily.