by R. W. Hughes
It seemed like an eternity before a little of his strength returned, sufficient for him to stagger a little farther up the shingle. Then slowly he began swinging his arms around and franticly pummelling his flesh, in an attempt to try and get some feeling to return to his frozen limbs.
As night fell, he was forced kept moving around trying to keep warm. He had searched for any dry kindling on the small islet but there was none to be found, otherwise he would have been solely tempted to light a fire, as he still had his flint and tinder. Now, he spent the night dreading the arrival of morning. Would his friend Douglas Polson be waiting for him or would he be met by his pursuers? If that was the case, he would certainly meet a grisly end. He knew he would not have the energy to resist their attack.
As he shivered and looked at the clear night sky with all the hundreds of stars, he wondered what he had got himself into.
And how he wished he was back in the comfy dry warm rooms he rented in the bustling town of Inverness, the occasional short secret meetings in the company of his beautiful Fiona. How he missed her pleasant genuine smile, her easy laughter, and her sparkling eyes. He was so engrossed in his own thoughts he could even imagine her sweet voice talking to him. His life had been planned for him, or so he thought. His older brother was eventually to take over the clan, it was his birth right and he was so much more suited to the Highland way of life than himself. While he, George, would work hard for the Forbson brothers in their practice making himself indispensable with the hope of being offered the opportunity to buy a partnership in that old established law firm. Then he would have been in a strong position to ask the Doctor and Mrs Russell for Fiona’s hand in marriage.
All these thoughts flittered through his mind as he fitfully dozed, between severe bouts of shivering. Oh, how cruel life could be. Instead of that idealistic situation he was here; huddled on an exposed island in the middle of a loch in the central Highlands, surrounded by hostile inhabitants where the morrow could well see him hunted down and shot, his body being left to rot or feed the carrion on this barren exposed moorland.
Three
In the faint light of the approaching dawn, he observed the slate grey stillness of the loch. There was a thick mist lying on the surface and he shivered uncontrollably as he entered the water again and started to swim in the general direction of the far shore, even though he could not see it in the mist. His mind was completely numb. He was so cold; he didn’t really care anymore if his pursuers were waiting for him or not as he struggled up the shingle on his hands and knees, forcing his legs which did not seem to belong to him one in front of the other.
He was suddenly aware of being lifted and carried to the shelter of some low bushes, recognising the voice of Douglas Polson talking to him through a grey thick mist and from a seemingly great distance. Slowly the feeling in his limbs returned and his mind began to clear as Douglas vigorously rubbed his near naked body with his own dry woollen shawl. It was Douglas—not following George’s orders, but who had hidden close by pistol cocked and sword at the ready—who had observed the actions of the group of Sutherland men at the side of the loch and proceeded to give George the details.
‘They were taken in by your scheme to pull the bundled kilt behind you George, as from a distance it had indeed looked like another man’s head bobbing in the water.’
George smiled as he sat in Douglas’s dry kilt with the shawl wrapped around him, as he absorbed the heat from the nearby fire that his friend had started, while Douglas told him about the breach of the musket exploding with the larger charge of powder, and the damage it had done to its owner and his companion. And how disheartened their pursuers were as they eventually decided to depart and give up the chase.
The big Highlander squeezed and spread out the wet bundle that was George’s kilt and shawl to dry a little. While in this process a round piece of lead shot fell from the shawl and landed on the shingle with a dull thud. He looked at this, and then up to his friend who was poking his finger through several holes in the layers of the wet woollen material. ‘You are a very lucky man, George,’ he said slowly shaking his head. ‘This was indeed a near miss.’
‘No! Douglas, you are the lucky one—the fact you can’t swim.’
Both men laughed aloud at the implications of what could have been, which released a lot of the stress that had built up over the last few days.
By the time the sun was high in the sky, they had made reasonable progress, and on Douglas’ insistence, George had worn his friend’s dry kilt, shirt and shawl. Although hungry, he felt much better and was recovering by the hour.
Meanwhile Douglas had changed into the wet clothes, which were now steaming with a combination of the sun and the body heat off his friend’s great frame. ‘We should soon reach the road to Tongue and travelling will be easier,’ said Douglas looking sideways at his companion, who he was pleased to see did not seem much the worse for wear after his previous night’s experiences.
Several hours later as dusk was approaching they came across a narrow track. ‘This is the path to the MacKay hamlet of Altnaharra at the mouth of Loch Naver. We’ll find shelter for the night down there,’ said Douglas. ‘Aye! I can smell their cooking fires,’ he replied as his nostrils detected the smell of burning peat.
‘You have been away from the Highlands too long, George,’ laughed Douglas. ‘That is the smell of an illicit still.’
Before he could reply there was a shout. ‘Ya two! Identify yourselves!’ This came from the direction of a thick clump of bushes at the side of the track. ‘Or I’ll spread ya innards for the crows,’ continued the very nervous voice.
It was George that replied putting his hand on Douglas’s wrist at the same time to stop the big man from drawing his pistol. He was rightly assuming that if it had been Sutherland’s men, they would have not issued the challenge. Instead, they would have shot first considering the tension between the two clans.
‘It is George Charles MacKay and Douglas Polson. Now show yourself.’ There was a silence for several moments then a rustling in the bushes, as an old man wrapped in a large shawl carrying a short blunderbuss slowly made his appearance, then came closer staring intently at the two young men.
‘Aye, George! My how ya’ve grown. I recognise ya now thou ya were a mere slip of a youth when I last saw ya at Tongue House. I knew ya parents well, and I was sorry to hear of ya father an’ brother. It was a terrible tragedy. A terrible tragedy indeed, but ya have the look of ya mother; she be a pretty woman, indeed a pretty woman.’
‘Can you lower your canon my friend,’ replied Douglas, as he watched the old short barrelled blunderbuss waving from side to side in the old man’s hands, as he emphasized the depth of his feelings.
The lethal weapon was lowered towards the ground and the striker and flint were slowly released into the cup by the old man’s thumb, much to the relief of the two men.
‘Aye! And I know you Douglas Polson, an’ I knew ya father an’ ya grandfather before him. Ya were a skinny lanky youth there being nowt about ye, the last time I saw ye. But my you could make two men now. My name is Heth, Heth MacQue, and I’m on duty at this side of village. We have a good mix on the boil. It being a grand crop a barley this year, so we expect a good strong brew, we do. There’s a government excise officer in tha area and if tha wasn’t enough there’s trouble afoot with clan Sutherland.’
‘What you say is true, Heth, and I’m glad that the village is taking adequate precautions against the Sutherlands. We had a run in with the some of them several days ago. We’ve also been travelling all day and seen no excise-men on this side of the moor. What we do require is food and shelter for the night, as we were pursued by the Sutherlands and the Gordons, and we lost our ponies and provisions, but I think they have now given up the chase, but you should keep your ears pricked and your eyes open, and do not be afraid to use your firearm.’
‘If I find cause to fi
re this weapon, nor only will it remove several to the next world, it’ll also wake and warn yon village.’ The old man’s reply brought a deep chuckle from Douglas, before he replied. ‘You carry on my friend, I am sure the village is safe while you are on duty.’
Leaving Heth who moved back into the shelter of the bushes to carry on with his guard duty, the two friends carried on down the track towards the village.
‘Yon third cottage on right that’s Morgan’s croft. He’s top man in the village, and they have spare room.’ The shout followed them as they disappeared out of the old man’s sight at a bend in the track.
It was dark when they entered the small village which consisted of five or six small crofts with fenced in paddocks behind each. The only sign of life they could hear was the odd bleat of goats that had been disturbed by the two strangers and the faint wisps of smoke coming from the thatched roof of the cottages. They banged on the door of the third cottage that had the faint glimmer of light showing through the narrow cracks in the poorly jointed wood. There was the barking of a dog from inside a crude shelter at the side of the croft, and the door of the dwelling opened to reveal a middle-aged man pointing a short stubby pistol through the narrow opening.
‘I am George Charles, the son of the late Cormac MacKay, and I request food and shelter for the night for myself and my friend. Your village guard, Heth MacQue, tells me you have a spare room and can accommodate us.’
There was a grunt and the door opened wider to allow him and his large companion into the small room. Standing behind his father was a youth of about twelve years old; George smiled at the lad who was holding a small wood chopping axe. There was a peat fire burning in the corner with the smoke going up to the rafters and slowly filtering through the thatch and peat of the roof covering but most seemed to be coming back into the room, making the two men’s eyes water.
On a tripod over the open fire was an iron cauldron with the contents bubbling merrily away. There was also a bench alongside a low table with a wooden platter containing several pieces of dark brown oatmeal bread, a jug and several clay goblets alongside which were several small knives. There was a low bunk with the heads of two children peeping out from under a thick woollen blanket, and sitting on the side of the bunk with her hand around the children was a woman, obviously their mother, the floor was of soil but hard-packed after generations of being trampled.
He felt embarrassed bursting in on this family like they had, and turned as if to go, but Douglas was made of sterner stuff. ‘I am Douglas Polson chief of the clan whose name I bear and my companion is Master of Reay, and you have the honour of sharing your roof and your evening meal with your chief, George Charles MacKay.’
‘Aye! Douglas Polson. I knew your father. He drove the village livestock to the city market and we always found him to be a fair man. And you, George MacKay, have my sympathies, to lose two members of your family in such dire circumstances is indeed a savage blow. You gentlemen are welcome to sit at my table and share my family’s meal.’
After not eating for nearly two days the stew dished out from the bubbling cauldron was exceptionally tasty, and with the help of the two very inquisitive barefooted young children, who had no inhabitations, their parents soon relaxed and Rory Morgan and his wife joined in conversation with the two strangers. It was during the evening meal that he took the opportunity to quiz them of their conditions here, on the outskirts of the MacKay lands.
The family like most in the small hamlet had several goats that provided milk some of which was turned into cheese; they also had a pig which when slaughtered provided meat which was smoked and salted to keep through the winter. They also had a strip of the community field which provided barley for bread and oats for their morning meal, any surplus barley went towards the community store for use in the village still. At the rear of the cottage, they grew a selection of root crops which also supplemented their winter supplies. The village also had a small herd of Highland cattle and a small flock of sheep jointly owned by the residents. The male cattle were castrated as calves and fattened for sale, and once a year they would be driven to a main collection point along with all the other surplus animals in the surrounding villages from there they would all be driven down to the cities of the Lowlands and sold in the annual great cattle markets.
The money earned from this sale would be used to pay their dues owing to their clan chief, or alternatively they would pay in the clear liquid that they had stumbled on which was in the process of being distilled. Any surplus would be used for purchasing the necessaries needed for the village. During fine weather to supplement their food supplies, they also fished on the nearby Loch Naveror. They were more alert now from rustlers—especially after the incident with the young Ian Bain and his family from Handa Island.
The following morning both men were up and ready to leave before dawn, but not before Rory Morgan had insisted they again share his family’s morning meal. After a hot bowl of porridge sweetened with honey, they thanked the Morgans for their hospitality before leaving their croft. But even at that early hour, all the inhabitants of the village had turned out to see the new leader, and cheer their new chief of the Clan MacKay.
It had been Douglas, while George was sleeping, who with his tongue loosened by several goblets of fiery clear whisky, could not restrain himself from telling his host of their exploits. The more he drank the more flowery their feats became of how they had left behind them many dead and injured Sutherland supporters. Even at that early hour the tale had spread like wildfire, and there was not a family in the village that was not aware of the story, and there to cheer them as they went on their way down the track out of the village.
As they set off and left the small huddle of crofts, George found he ached all over. All his muscles were terribly stiff, and he was finding it difficult keeping up with the pace set by his companion. Douglas smiled to himself as he saw his friend struggling but not complaining. But after a short while, when his stiff muscles had loosened, both men were striding out, making exceptionally good time along the track that would eventually take them back to Tongue House.
It was during this journey that George finalised in his head his plan, then outlined it briefly to his companion, but he kept the most important details to himself. He had seen how a few drams of whisky could easily loosen Douglas’s tongue, and it was imperative that some of the more salient details he kept close to his chest.
‘Your plan is shrewd, George. Your lawyer’s brain has been working overtime to come up with an idea such as this; if it is successful, it will certainly inflict serious pain on the Sutherlands and their supporters.’
The enthusiastic way that Douglas embraced the plan in turn gave him more confidence in what was really a very risky escapade. ‘We will start making arrangements as soon as we arrive back at Tongue, but the details we will keep between ourselves. There will be many lives at risk and it would be disastrous if the Sutherlands were aware of what we had in mind because of careless chatter.’ What he was really trying to say to Douglas, without being blunt and upsetting his friend, was be careful what you say when you have had a glass or two of whisky.
Several days later after stopping on route at various villages to introduce himself to the occupants, they eventually arrived at Tongue House. Word had already preceded them of their brush with the Sutherlands, and as usual with this type of tale, their exploits were exaggerated out of all proportion. Apparently according to one version, they had left not just several but scores of mangled and crippled Sutherland men in their wake.
Leaving his brother, Riavach, and Douglas to notify the chieftains to muster their clansmen, and that action was about to be taken to avenge the death of Cormac and Donald MacKay and the invasion of their territory, George went to find his uncle, Reverend Alistair Monroe. He wanted the key to the war chest, as he needed funds to arrange the purchase of extra powder and shot to finance his coming campaign of revenge ag
ainst the Sutherlands and their main supporters the Duncan’s.
He eventually found his uncle in the little chapel doing some minor repairs to the entrance door. When he started to give him a brief outline of his plan, the Reverend Monroe put his forefinger to his lips and led his nephew out of the chapel and into the warm sunshine of the small graveyard.
‘This, George, is a more appropriate place to discuss what you have in mind,’ he said with a wry friendly smile. He listened without interruption while he was told the battle plan and the intentions of his nephew before he spoke. ‘You already realise, of course, that the Earl of Sutherland has the ear of the English General Wade and is based with his troops at Fort Augustus. The Earl as a silver tongue. It would be twisted that it was you who has broken the law, unlawfully attacking the Sutherland men who were simply going about their business. You must remember, he would not have committed his men to the course of action without first feeling confident that he could call upon the English for support.’
‘I hear what you say, Uncle, but Douglas Polson is sure he recognised the nephew of the Earl Sutherland amongst the group of men by Loch Shin, Nicolas Duncan, the assassin of my father and brother, which is all the more reason that I need to move quickly, if I am to obtain satisfaction for that man’s cowardly deed.’
