ISBN: 9781623093020
"Will no one tell me what she sings? Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow For old unhappy, far-off things, And battles long ago."
[Wordsworth: 'The Reaper']
The mist swirled and eddied around her feet, cold and clammy. She walked briskly, her long and petticoats dragging and clinging around her calves and ankles. The ground was springy underfoot and she could hear the gurgling of water somewhere off to her right. Her pulse quickened. She knew she was almost there. The abrupt song of a lark startled her as it flew and she smiled as she paused to raise her eyes skyward.
Suddenly, a twig snapped beyond the brush ahead of her. Her carefree attitude changed. Maybe she shouldn't have ventured out by herself in such weather. She remembered Mona's tales of elves and goblins and the spirits of the dead men who haunted these glens and woods.
At the sound of rustling leaves nearby she turned to run then froze. A large shape loomed up out of a thicket and lunged towards her. She stood as though rooted to the spot, the scream rising in her throat. But it was only a beautiful and frightened red deer. The startled animal looked at her curiously, then bounded away as Fiona laughed nervously. Picking up her skirts, she moved forward once more.
Trees and branches snagged her hair and garments as she continued on her climb. Suddenly, it was as though the whole world was hers. She stood on a berm, a moss covered berm that once, long ago in the mists of time and forgotten memories, had been some kind of fortification. It's strategic location overlooked a lush green valley, down which the icy waters of a fast flowing burn meandered along its floor, whispering and gurgling as it wound its way over rocks and stones and an occasional tree stump. The hidden sun finally broke through the grey clouds and chased the swirling mist across and out of the valley.
The small burn was helped on its way by a waterfall which glinted and gleamed, making rainbows in the sunlight as it cascaded down a rock-faced hillside. She scrambled down the side the glen to where the waterfall ended in a liquid turquoise pool that just invited bathing.
Seating herself comfortably on a large rock by the pool, she hung her wet shawl, bodice and skirt over a tree branch to dry in the sunlight.
She sensed rather than heard the solitary figure that had noiselessly stalked into the clearing to stand behind her. Startled, she turned, shading her eyes from the sun. The tallest man she had ever seen stood looking down at her.
She jumped up, expecting him to speak or make a move toward her. But he just looked at her with very pale blue, watery eyes which shifted to take in her attire and her clothing on the tree branch. With a shrug of his shoulders, he readjusted a large canvas bag he was carrying and walked off, his kilt swinging in rhythm to his long strides while the sun glinted off the long barrel his Brown Bess musket.
Fiona followed him with her eyes until he blended into the bracken and then the trees and was gone. She sat down, somewhat shaken, and wondered who this tall taciturn Scot could be. Never had she seen anyone so tall. Had she imagined him or had he been real? She had never, met anyone here before; not in all the times she had come with her father. But then maybe things had changed since she'd last been to this spot. How long ago was that? Almost ten years ago she realized with sorrow as her father's face hovered on the edge of her memories.
She wondered what her father would be doing right now, if he were still alive. Fiona stirred the pool with her toes. As the water circled outwards from her feet, she peered down trying to see her reflection. She saw a distorted image of a red-haired, freckled-faced girl. How she hated her looks, especially her freckles. She looked closer. She looked like her father, she decided. He had had red hair and some freckles, although he had hidden the latter behind his splendid moustache and whiskers.
Oh how she missed him and her mother whose letters were so few and far between. Still, she receive one almost every time a clipper or merchantman made it back from India. And that wasn't all her mother sent her; wonderful calicos, silks, spices and jewels accompanied each letter so that she was quite the envy when she went out in London or Tunbridge Wells. How ironic that her mother and new husband should also be in a place named Fort William - though one was on other side of the world in Bengal, India.
Here, in Fort William in the Highlands, Fiona dressed very plainly, like any other Highland maiden. No-one would know she was the daughter of the late Sir Malcolm MacKenzie and granddaughter to the Laird, though the latter would never acknowledge or receive her. His son, her father, had been guilty of two unpardonable crimes. Firstly, he had married a MacDonald. And secondly, even though his father hadn't, he had gone out in support of Bonnie Prince Charlie l745.
The hopes of the Prince and the life of her father had both come to an end at Culloden. After an unsuccessful attempt to surprise the English troops under cover of darkness, the exhausted Highlanders, many of whom had marched for days, were broken and routed by the well-disciplined and well-equipped forces of the English under the able and astute command of the Duke of Cumberland. Over one thousand gallant Highlanders, under the command of the MacDonalds, had given their lives for their Prince while scarce three hundred of the English were killed and wounded.
Now her father lay beneath the ground with the other Highlanders whose blood had spilled that fateful l6th day of April in l746. She remembered, as a small child of seven, being held by her trembling and weeping mother as her wounded uncle, Malcolm MacDonald, brought them the news of her father's death that very night. The following day, they had trudged with the other women and children who searched for their loved ones among the wounded and the dead.
When they had finally come upon the moor where the battle had been waged, an awful stillness seemed to hang like a pall over the scene. As they approached, the moans and pleas for help from the wounded filled the air. Fiona had expected blood, bright red, everywhere. Instead, it was dark brown in color and in a way more sickening for that. The weeping and hysteria of the women and children rose as one after another found a husband, brother, son or father, dead, his blood spilled on the field of battle. That memory would never leave her. Nor would the dreadful keening of the women as their anguish rendered the sobs and moans into one uniform, primordial lamentation. The smell of carnage and the sight of the dead still gave her nightmares. When they finally found her father, he had been stripped naked, still clutching his dirk in vice grip of death. Her mother had quickly spread her shawl over his nakedness and cursed those who had deprived him of his dignity, even in death. Then had come the digging of the graves and the wailing as the men folk were laid to rest for ever. Clan by clan, on Culloden Moor, the rain fell and the pale green larch and dark pine stood like sentinels on guard over the long mounds that were the eternal resting places of the fallen.
Fires had been built and the women, children, a few men too old to fight, and some of the walking wounded had finally lain down, their tartan shawls wrapped tight around them as they slept till morn. Then began again the sad job as, with more wailing from the bereaved, more men were laid to rest beneath the earth of the moor.
The fallen English had been laid to their last rest in a field nearby by red-coated sullen soldiers many of whom spoke in a thick, guttural tongue that the Scots found as alien to their ears as did the English troops the skirling of the pipes when their mournful airs swept over the graves, the moor, the heather clad hills and forever instilled them with memories of the horror that was Culloden.
She remembered the long march back with the walking wounded, the women and children in the drenching rain. "The very heavens are weeping for the fallen," her mother had said.
The slow lumbering carts carried the seriously wounded and the remaining battle gear, though that was scant since it was said the perfidious English had taken much as souvenirs before the womenfolk and clansfolk had arrived. Indeed, the accompanying English soldiers did seem to be burdened down with goods as they escorted the forlorn group back into town.
The Laird, her grandfather, was one of a very few whose lands were not seized in reprisal by the English government since he had not openly supported the cause, even though his son had. At least his son had died an honorable death, unlike the others who were hunted down like animals by Cumberland and his men. For three months the Duke of Cumberland spent every breathing moment hunting down Jacobite fugitives. He carried out his crusade with merciless severity, committing atrocities which won him the name "Butcher", as he burned down villages, had prisoners shot in cold blood, torturing and flogging others.
As a result of the uprising, the clan system was abolished, as was the playing of the pipes and carrying of arms by a Scot. The wearing of the kilt and tartans were likewise forbidden. All a Scotsman held dear, all that he had that proclaimed his proud heritage, were taken from him. Life imprisonment or death were the price of capture.
So why was it then that the man who had stood over her just a few moments earlier had dared to wear a kilt? Didn't he know the price he'd have to pay if caught? How could he, she thought. Why even her grandfather the Laird, as proud to be a Scot as anyone, would never wear a kilt, and certainly not near Fort William with the English garrison stationed there.
Thinking back to the last time she had seen her grandfather, she pictured "Grand D," as she had called him when she was a small child. She remembered how she and her mother had sought out her grandfather the week following Culloden. Fiona had been entrusted into the care of Flora, Mona's sister who was Grand D's housekeeper, while her mother went in to speak to Grand D. She could still remember the rich aroma of the hot cakes on the hearth as she had sat warm and snug in the kitchen her mouth watering in anticipation of the delight to come, the kettle whistling on the hob.
Then her mother, ashen-faced, had rushed in, grabbing her by the hand and dragging her out to waiting carriage in spite of Flora's protestations and hand wringing. She hadn't seen Flora since, though Mona kept up a correspondence with her sister and they were kept well informed of grandfather's state of mind and health.
On that fateful day ten years ago, Fiona had sat huddled in her corner of the carriage, too frightened to ask questions as it bumped and swayed over the ruts and potholes on the way home. Her mother had sat with her fists tightly clenched on her lap, staring out the window at the moors.
Her grandfather's son's wife and child, out of favor in his eyes, had left the Highlands for London where, away from his control and domination, Fiona's mother had later wed an English peer, Lord Midwood, thereby further alienating herself and her daughter from her father-in-law and any future hope of reconciliation.
Lord Midwood, several years older than his petite "blue-eyed, raven-haired beauty" as he called Fiona's mother, was an officer of sterling reputation in His Majesty's army and had been put in charge of troops sent over to India to protect the English interests of the East India Company out there. Much to her chagrin, Fiona's mother had left to join her husband in India late in l754, leaving Fiona in the capable hands and care of Mona and Joseph MacLeod, faithful family servants who had left Scotland with them in 1745.
Along with a small handful of Lord Midwood's servants they kept the London house open where Fiona lived. She took lessons from a German governess, Fraulein Munch, and was taken to dancing classes and endless social rounds as befitted her station in life. As much as Fiona appreciated her London life, she loved her Highland life better. Here she could abandon her hoops and stays and wigs and let her hair loose, her skirts swing freely and walk barefoot. She had wanted too long for this return to the simplicity of the Highlands and had oft times imagined it in her elegant London rooms.
Now here she was, she thought happily. Taking a deep breath, Fiona let the cool sweet smell wet grass and the moist mosses fill her nostrils and lungs. At this time of the year there was no heather covering the ground, and no familiar smell rose to rekindle memories of her last romp of ten years ago before leaving for England and her new life there.
Feeling suddenly hungry, Fiona pulled her string bag towards her. In it she had her rations fir the day; two of Mona's meat pies and some of her oatmeal cakes, as well as her most prized possessions wrapped in a challis scarf - the letters her mother had sent her since her departure over a year ago. Four in all, they were dog eared from constant readings and handling. She pulled one out, the last one she had received from her mother just before she and the MacCleods had left London for the Highlands.
She wondered what her mother would think if she knew they had come back because of Grand 's illness and maybe to be reconciled with him. Ah well, no matter she thought, her mother was too far away to care or do anything about it. If her mother ever heard about their attempts to reconcile, and whatever the outcome might be, it would all be over and done with by the time her mother had news of it. Sighing, she opened up the letter and started to read.
July 1755
"Dearest Fiona,
This land is such a land of contrasts. Now of course I cannot venture out too often, for it is monsoon season and everyone is suffering from the heat and humidity, or worse. We now not only have swamps on one side of us and to the North of us but seem to be living in a veritable swamp too. The heat is intense and debilitating and one doesn't venture out much, though the heat does not seem to affect the local population in any way. They keep on going about their business in their usual fashion and seemingly without a care in the world. They seem so complacent or fatalistic and never seem in a hurry to do anything or get anywhere. Maybe it's years and of living with this heat; it certainly does seem to sap one's strength and energy.
You wouldn't believe how some of the locals get around. We were out during a break in the weather just the other day when we saw a whole family astride what I thought to be a dead buffalo, floating down the river Hoogly seemingly without a care in the world. Upon pointing them out to your stepfather's adjutant, he said I was quite correct, but that the buffalo in question wasn't merely dead but that what we were seeing was in fact the inflated hide of one and their means of transportation! Can you imagine? Can you picture such a sight on the Thames? Nor can you imagine the smells, I should say the stenches, at this time of the year. I cannot take a step without a perfumed handkerchief at my nose.
As you can imagine, not only what passes for streets get flooded but the sewers too, all open and above ground of course, and the middens as well so that the flies and insects are appalling in number. Many of the men in the company and the regiment are suffering from a wasting disease. Some die within hours of getting sick and others suffer through one or two days. Needless to say, until the illness passes we have no contact and all who contract it must go the warehouse which is being used for housing the sick. The other day the river rose so high it is said the warehouse flooded and several sick drowned, too weak to save themselves or be saved by rescuers. This is truly a God forsaken country at this time of the year and I miss the open, sweet smelling Highlands of my youth so very much. I do wish you could enjoy the Highlands as I did as a young girl…"
Oh mother, if you only knew, thought Fiona as she continued reading her mother's letter.
"We did go to meet Robert Clive when he returned from England to receive first hand news of you. He said he had seen you in London and that you were now a comely lass! Dearest how I miss you and wish we could be together once more. Dear Edwin has promised me we will return in l756 when our two year stint will be up. I miss you and London so much. Anyhow, we'll both have to make the best of it until we see one another again. Meantime a Captain Farrington, a friend of your stepfather's, will be looking you up in London and has promised to escort you to dinners and parties. It's alright - we are not matchmaking he's old enough to be your father, and will make a perfectly safe and acceptable escort for you. Your stepfather has drawn up a document making Captain Farrington your guardian should anything, God forbid, happen to us. There was no-one else to ask. Edwin being the last of his line, as you know, only has an elderly maiden aunt and your father's brother Stewart would probably be dominated by your grandfather. It is better this way, there is no gain in it for Captain Farrington who does it out of friendship. At least you'll be able to go places, I just wish I could.
You can hardly walk here even at the best of times. The dirt clings and cloys to everything so. Oh for Bath, the colonnaded walks with the Abbey seen beyond, the social gatherings. It is so dead here with little or no social life. About the only social life is the piper at meal times and he's a Campbell! Every time I see him I want to spit on him for what he and kind did to mine in the Glen of Weeping. You know us MacDonalds, we never forget…"
Mother! thought Fiona, the man must have been all of, well…, Fiona quickly counted in her head and realized that the man her mother was accusing of having had a hand in the terrible massacre of the MacDonalds at Glencoe in l692 could not have been born, much less have taken part in his people's shame. Must the sons and daughters keep paying for the sins of their fathers?, wondered Fiona returning to her mother's letter.
"Beauty sat bathing by a spring
Where fairest shades did hide her;
The winds blew calm, the birds did sing,
The cool stream ran beside her…"
said a well modulated voice behind Fiona.
Startled for the second time in one day Fiona jumped up, dropping her mother's letter which fluttered away from her as she turned to confront the stranger looking down at her.
She looked up into deep blue eyes beneath dark brows above a sharp aquiline nose, and lips turned up in a quizzical smile. His hair, which hung loose about his shoulders, was the color of autumn wheat.
Before Fiona could react he was off, running like the wind, pausing for an instant as he reached the top of the berm to wave back to her and then he was gone, the flash of his kilt soon lost in the wild undergrowth.
Another madman! Was he with the first man? Did kilted highlanders hide out here? Were there any more of them? She looked around worriedly as she wondered who he could be, this reciting highlander who didn't even pause to pass the time of day or exchange names. Suddenly she shivered and, feeling a chill, replaced her bodice and skirt and gathered up her string purse and shawl. Then she remembered her mother's letter and looked around for it. Her mother's letter, where was it? She scrambled around, searching, suddenly frantic. Then she saw it, caught between two rocks in mid-stream. She waded into the burn and retrieved it. It was destroyed. She cried when she held it up. The paper separated and parts of it floated away from her grasp. The ink had smeared the letters making them indecipherable. She fell to her knees sobbing, the burn dragging at her skirt and petticoats as she tried in vain to grasp each little piece of wet disintegrating paper. She didn't know how long she had knelt there but she became suddenly aware that the sky above was as black as a burnt pot and that she was far from home, soaking wet and very cold. She scrambled up and out of the burn and tried to wring her soaking petticoats as the first streak of lightning cut the heavens, releasing rain which began pelting down on her. She started to sob and, grabbing her string bag, clutched it to her and began running. The skies overhead exploded and the ground became slippery underfoot so that she was soon soaked from head to foot, her rain-matted hair blinded her and her clothing dragged like a dead weight as she slipped and slid down a small hill. As she scrambled up another, she slid and was soon tumbling head over heels until she reached the foot of the hill where she finally came to rest, the wind knocked out of her.
She pulled herself up, her body a mass of aches and pains, and attempted to climb up the hill again. This time she made it up to the top and lay panting on the sodden ground until she could catch her breath. She wondered what time it was and what Mona would be fixing for supper. Spurred on by thoughts of the warmth of Mona's kitchen and dry clothes, she brushed her wet hair off her face and began to run towards Fort William.
She was soon panting for breath, and when she reached the next hilltop she stood leaning a tall fir trying to catch her breath and see through the driving rain in order to get her bearings. The lightning caught her by surprise and she fell, knocked off her feet by the falling fir as it was split in half by a bolt of lightning. She felt herself falling, falling, into a black pit.
"He is gone on the mountain, He is lost to the forest,"…
[Sir Walter Scott: 'Coronach']
The red-coated troops caught in the downpour during their 'ten mile conditioning hike,' as Blackburn was wont to call his little romps through the heather and gorse with full military packs on their backs, cursed the day they'd been born. But, more to the point, they cursed the fate which had landed them in this unfriendly part of the country where people turned their backs on them and none offered them the hospitality of their homes, for old grudges and memories lingered long in the Highlands and parents were averse to their daughters befriending the foe. Even so, a few managed to strike up a friendship, or even a relationship, though under adverse and strained conditions.
The soldiers trudged on, their heads and backs bent under the lashing of the rain and the of weight of their packs until luckless Tommy Greene gave them all a respite when he slipped, fell, and rolled down a hill, his musket flying from his grasp as his back pack carried him head over heels to the bottom where he landed with an ominous thump. He twitched and then lay deathly still.
"Private Jenkins, see wot's the matter with the man," ordered the Sergeant in a voice which held more of a threat of a lashing if Jenkins didn't do as he was told as it did any sign of compassion as to what had happened to poor Greene.
Jenkins, a well built and somewhat ruddy faced individual, paled but took off his pack and entrusted his musket to his friend Mather's hands before he went down the hillside as ordered, slipping and sliding on the rain slicked surface. He was a muddy mess with grass and gorse sticking to his uniform and his boots by the time he arrived at the bottom of the incline and had reached Greene's prostrate form. Jenkins turned Greene over and his concerned companions, from above, saw him retch as he turned away. It was some time before he could turn and yell up the hill.
"I think he's dead, Sir. I think he's broken his neck."
"Think? What do you mean think? You're not here to think. Either he's dead or he's not," roared back Sergeant Blackburn before ordering Mather and Pilling to go down and help Jenkins bring up "a corpse or a private in His Majesty's service!"
The two men, white faced like Jenkins who turned to look up at them as they approached, slithered and slid their way down the hill while those left behind stood cold and sullen under the trees on top of the hill, which afforded little or no shelter from the driving rain.
The three men at the bottom of the hill had soon gathered up poor Greene and with Jenkins holding him by the feet, Pilling carrying his gear and Mather holding him by the armpits, they began the awkward climb up the hill to where their companions awaited them. The ascent was hard since the rain, if anything, had increased in intensity and their loads were both awkward and heavy and every step they took promised to send them all slipping and sliding to a fate similar to Greene's. The three men and their loads finally reached the top of the hill where they gently deposited their dead companion and his gear on the ground near Sergeant Blackburn's feet. The latter peered down at Greene and then let fly with a hard kick to Greene's ribs. The men flinched but apart from a quiver, Greene's body showed no reaction to the kick.
"Just checking," said Sergeant Blackburn with a yellow-toothed grin as he dared anyone to show any reaction, his black eyes darting about to see if anyone was showing any emotion.
"Well, let's get moving, let's find a place to put the poor bastard. Anyone seen any sign of habitation in these parts? Well 'ave ye?" he roared.
"No Sir!" replied the men looking around desultorily. At that very moment a bolt of rent the air and hit a tall fir on a neighboring hilltop. The men turned to look and, in the flash of light from the bolt as it hit and ignited the tree, saw a figure go flying down the side of hill away from their view.
"My God, what in God's name was that. Did you see it?" asked Jenkins.
"Now what do you think you've seen, a witch, a spirit, a ghost?" asked Sergeant Blackburn, his voice heavy with sarcasm. "Or maybe even a giant?"
"Sir, begging your pardon, Sir, but it looked like a woman to me, Sir!" responded Mather, standing straight besides Jenkins and daring to look Sergeant Blackburn in the eye.
"Well, if you are both so sure you saw something, why don't you both hold hands and go check it out. If it is a woman you saw, maybe she lives around here and can let us shelter for a while, or at least leave Greene with her while we make it back to the barracks in Fort William to fetch a cart… unless any of you want to carry the man all the way back?" he inquired as he peered at the sullen group. "Well go on, don't stand around like a bunch of ninnies, go check it out!" he bellowed.
The two men, after Mather had also taken off his pack, took off for the other hill, their muskets in hand. From their hill side their companions watched their progress and saw them scramble, slipping and sliding, finally reach the top of the next hill. They could see the two men on top of the ridge and then saw them fling themselves to the ground as they peered over the edge the hill. Then they were up and racing back towards their companions.
"Well?" asked Sergeant Blackburn,"and did you see a witch or a ghost?"
"No, it was more like a giant!" said Mather, stumbling over his words, his face as white as a sheet.
"That's right, Sir, a giant. I tell you we'd better get out of these woods fast, they're not safe," said Jenkins.
"Giants! Woods not safe? What are ye, soldiers or mice? And what was this giant doing he scared you off so that between the two of you, you couldn't have captured him and brought him back for our soup pot this evening, heh?" asked Sergeant Blackburn with a grimace creasing his ruddy complexioned features, his voice laced with sarcasm.
"Doing? Well, he picked up a body, a woman's body and flung it over his shoulder, looked at us and then took off."
"So, you saw a giant, he had a woman, a woman's body and he took off with her and you ran here like a couple of rabbits and let him take off without trying to stop him? Well now I've everything. Come on men, let's follow this giant that these two milksops have supposedly seen and see if he leads us to a house or a cave! Come on, let's move! You three carry Greene" he yelled looking at Jenkins, Mather and Pilling, "and you others pick up their packs and carry them for them" he ordered, singling out three other unfortunates who gave baleful glares at his back as he went to the head of the line and led the group down the hillside, and across glen, and then up the other hill and down into the trees where the 'giant' and his 'captive' had disappeared.
"The rain set early in to-night, The sullen wind was soon awake, It tore the elm-tops down for spite, And did its worst to vex the lake;.."
[R. Browning: Porphyria's Lover]
"Joseph, I do think you oughtta go out and look for her. Look at that weather outside. What if she slipped and hurt herself? I'd never forgive meself for letting her go off like that by herself," said Mona, wringing her hands in anguish, as her warm brown eyes peered worriedly at the rain-lashed street.
"Come on lass, don't carry on so, she'll be alright, you'll see. Why, she'll be coming through that door the moment your rabbit pie comes out of the oven. You can bet on that!" said Joseph, trying to jolly Mona along. "You fret too much. Why, didn't the lassie grow up in these parts? Now how could she go and get herself lost? Be reasonable, woman."
"I don't know, Joseph, she should have been back by now, I'm fair worried, that I am."
"Alright lass, I'll go off and see if I can find her then. Now will you stop worrying?" asked Joseph, giving his plump and normally cheerful wife a hug before he took his musket off the wall over the large hearth that comprised nearly one whole side of the small cottage. "Best have a few bricks warm to put in her bed, she'll no doubt be soaking wet and fair cold as well as in need of a rest when she gets back."
As Joseph set out, pulling a thick warm cloak over his thin shoulders, Mona bustled around the large room which doubled as a kitchen and living area and had a curtain at one end behind which nestled a large feather bed. Steps led up to a loft that doubled as a bedroom and a study, the walls on one side being lined with books and old paintings, portraits of Highland men and their families.
Mona, after bustling about checking and re-checking the pie in the oven and the bricks by the fireside, finally sat down in the rocking chair by the hearth and held herself as she sat there crooning to calm her nerves. It was pitch black outside and the fire on the hearth had been restoked several times before Joseph finally came through the door, leaving a puddle of water where he stood taking off his rain soaked cloak.
"Well?" asked Mona jumping up, a look of expectancy on her plump face.
"She's nowhere to be found lass, not a sign of her. I walked far and wide, up and down the glen, not a sign," he ended, despondency etched on his craggy features.
"Lord have mercy on me!" said Mona clasping her hands together. "Well, what do we do? What can have happened to the girl?" she asked fearfully.
"Hopefully she's taken shelter from the storm. It's something fierce out there lass - or maybe found a crofter's hut and is somewhere I didn't look."
"But what if she's not safe? What if she's been hurt and is lying at the bottom of some glen unable to help herself, what then?" asked Mona fearfully.
"Well if you're that worried I'll be off to rouse Fergus. Now you just bide by here and Fergus and I will rouse some men and get a search party together and we'll find her. Now quit your mithering, Mona, and stop your worrying, best look after that fire. That's a right sad one to welcome anyone home with," said Joseph, finding fault with anything rather than think what might happen to him if Miss Fiona might have come to some harm.
The old man, her grandfather, won't care, Joseph thought to himself. As for the mother, she was clear on the other side of the world and wouldn't get the news till it was old and over and with. But his wife Mona would never be still until the girl was found and he wouldn't get any rest or peace until she was, that was for sure. Besides, Fiona was like their own child - the child they'd never had and though he would never admit it, dour seeming Scot that he was, he was as worried as Mona over what could have become of Fiona.
His shoulders drooping he put his cloak back on, and with a sigh left the cottage and went to rouse his friends Fergus and Alistair whom he hadn't seen since his return to the Highlands. A fine how do ye do he thought to himself, I don't even have time to greet my old friends before I'm calling on them for help. His friends, when roused, thought nothing of his sudden arrival upon their doorsteps and acted as though he hadn't been out of town for nigh on ten years, or that a search party in the dead of night during a raging storm was anything but a common event. They soon roused a few more friends from the cottages which lined the street leading to the moor's path, and a search party was underway in no time at all. A file of lights showing their progress could be discerned as it flickered out of town on the path leading to the moors and to the glen in the direction that Fiona had taken that very morn.
From behind curtains and open doors silent, concerned people watched the procession get smaller and smaller until not even one flickering lantern or tarred flaming torch could be seen through the heavy rain. For her part, Mona was soon joined by a few women from the town who promised to keep a vigil with her until the Laird's granddaughter was found, dead or alive.
"Now don't you fret, Mona," said Mrs. Veitch, putting a comforting arm around Mona's shoulders. "The men will find her, you mark my words."
"Aye, the men will find her even though it's not a fit night for man nor beast," said Mrs. MacAllister, pulling her shawl closer around her thin shoulders.
"Aint it sad about the Laird?" stated Mrs. McGowan with relish in a vain attempt to take Mona's mind off Fiona.
"What?" asked Mona distractedly.
"About him being sick and all, they do say he might not recover" continued Mrs. McGowan morbidly. "You did come back, did ye not, because they say he's on his deathbed?"
"Oh hush woman, Mona's got other things on her mind besides the health of that bitter old man. Besides, he has an iron constitution, everyone knows that. You mark my words, he'll pull through this one," said Mrs. Veitch. "Besides, all he needs is bed rest according to Doctor Jackson. He'll be up in no time at all."
There was a knock on the door which opened to show Mona's sister Flora standing there.
"Well, come on in lass, close that bleeding door or we'll all catch our death of cold!" Mrs. Veitch admonished.
"Oh, I'm so glad you came, Flora," said Mona, bursting into tears as they fell into one another's arms.
"Now, now," said Flora comfortingly, "she'll be alright, you'll see. What harm can she come to out there? She'll be sheltering from the storm and be as right as rain, if you'll excuse the expression, you mark my words. But what a homecoming, eh? We'd heard you'd arrived and I did try to air the place out a bit as you know, but I couldna get away from the Laird. He's sleeping right now, otherwise I'm tied down to his every whim and fancy. Did ye find everything alright?" she queried anxiously, looking around.
"It's all my fault. But you know the McKenzies - they're a stubborn bunch and she would go off by herself. Said she needed to be by herself," said Mona, breaking down and sobbing again.
"There, there, don't take on so, she'll be found," said Flora comfortingly and then continued. "Now come on we can't all sit around here doing nothing. Is the water boiled yet? I brought a wee dram to put in our tea to warm us and keep our spirits up, you might say," she ended with a laugh.
"Oh Flora! You wicked woman," said Mrs. McGowan gleefully. "Why, if my Alistair only knew, he'd have my hide!"
"Yes, well your Alistair always was a self-righteous one wasn't he though?"
Still sniffing and crying, Mona asked "How's the Laird, Flora? Do you think he'll want to see his only grandchild?"
"Oh he'll pull through alright, though he's running me off my feet what with ringing his bell every few minutes on some pretext or other. As to seeing his granddaughter I just don't know, you know the McKenzies…"
"A stubborn old bunch," chorused the women so that even Mona had to laugh and dry her tears.
"Och aye, they are that and all" said Flora resignedly.
"And now with the young master off to America with General Braddock's forces he's going be very lonely, for I do not think that Master Stewart will be back, not in the Laird's lifetime anyhow. Another of these attacks and Dr. Jackson says he won't be responsible. The Laird is a sad, old, lonely man these days. Why, he blames the English for all his woes, the death of his son and heir in the troubles of forty-five and the fact that his other son is a soldier in the English forces of General Braddock over in the New World. And of course he never forgets that his in daughter in-law is married to an Englishman and a soldier at that. He could certainly use some cheering up and some life around the place. Why he rattles around in that old draughty place all by himself beats me, and the house - why, the place needs repairs something bad but he won't let Fergus do any. Says there's no point. Aye, tis sad, but he needs a reason to live that's for sure," she ended reflectively.
"Who'll look after things after he's gone?" said Mona more to herself than to anyone who might be listening.
"Well, Master Stewart won't, that's for sure. He made it quite clear before he left that he wanted nothing from his father other than his mother's small place over at Kilbrae, if he ever comes back from the Americas that is. His chances are pretty slim, so I've heard."
"Why, what have you heard?" asked Mona as she looked at Flora worried.
"Only that the army is ill-equipped and outmatched by the enemy, the latter aided and abetted by those heathen redmen."
"So there will be no-one to take over then," said Mona reflectively as she poked the fire. Sparks flew upwards and outwards, lighting up the faces huddled for warmth around the hearth.
"Master Stewart never did wed then?"
"Och no," said Flora, "there's no-one around here, besides what with soldiering and all he couldn't offer a future to anyone, life's so uncertain."
"Aye, that it is," agreed the women as they huddled around the hearth for warmth, the flames flickering and making shadows tremble over the brick fireplace and walls of the cottage.
There was a madness on the earth below And anger in the sky. And young and old and rich and poor, Came forth to see him die.
[W.E. Aytoun: The Execution of Montrose]
Fiona slowly came to. She opened her eyes and at first could see nothing. As she regained full consciousness she was aware of a throbbing in her head and that her right wrist hurt her abominably. She tried to sit up but fell back, dizzy She lay still for a while wondering where she was as her eyes slowly adjusted to the faint light. She soon realized that she was in some sort of house or hut and that, judging fro the smell there was a peat fire warming the place. She could still hear the rain coming down, stronger than ever, and wondered how she had got to where she was. She again tried to sit up and this time, though her head ached and she felt slightly nauseated, she made it to an upright position. Slowly she felt around her and realized she was lying on a bed of heather over which had been spread a large blanket and that she was in a small, neat, whitewashed-walled hut.
A fireplace stood on one side opposite the bed, the only items of furniture being two small stools next to a three-legged table facing the hearth. Other than the fire glow there was no other light in the place, and she wondered who had brought her here. As if in answer to her question the door opened and the tall man she had seen in the glen that morning stooped to come in. Fiona sat back, somewhat afraid.
The giant looked in her direction and said "Ah!" Non-commital as he hung a pot of water on an iron hook above the peat fire.
Fiona watched him and then dared to speak.
"If you brought me here, I would like to thank you for that and for giving me shelter from the storm."
Getting no response, she continued, "I'm from Fort William, at least I'm staying there now. My name is Fiona - Fiona MacLeod," she said hurriedly. Why had she lied she wondered. Well I just don't want him to know I'm the Laird's grand-daughter, that's all, she said to herself to justify the lie.
Why didn't the man say anything She wondered. He just sat by the fire waiting for the water to boil, yet she was sure he had heard her. She decided to join him and rose from the makeshift bed. She stood up. Her legs were somewhat wobbly so she hesitated for a moment before she went over and seated herself on the other stool facing the man. He glanced at her but still did not say anything. He then stood up and took down a block of tea from which he cut a piece and put it in the pot where the water could be heard bubbling.
He then turned to her and without a word felt her wrist, so gently that she could scarcely feel his fingers as they probed and prodded. Then in one quick stride he went over to a bag that was hung from a wooden peg on the back of the door, and took a piece of what looked like sheeting material from it. He had soon torn a long strip from the material and made a small rent at one end. He then proceeded to place the other end on her wrist and deftly wound the whole around her wrist and tied it there. With another piece of the sheeting he quickly made a sling and supported her wrist in it while he tied the two ends at the back of her neck.
"Thank you," said Fiona, "that feels wonderful. How did you know my wrist was hurt?"
Still he did not answer her but took a step closer to her and began to feel her head. He pressed a sore spot at the back of her head so that Fiona cried out. She would have fainted and slumped at his feet had he not caught her and helped her back up onto her stool.
He mumbled something at her but she didn't understand and looked up at him blankly. He mumbled again and still she didn't understand. He turned from her, obviously angry, she could tell from his expression, and began to pour the brewed tea into two cups he had taken off the mantel above the fire and offered her one. The tea was strong and very hot, and she was nonplussed by his behavior and her inability to understand what he was saying. It was as though he couldn't talk and was just making sounds, sounds she had never heard before.
She sat sipping the tea and was startled into spilling it down her front when the door suddenly burst open and a soldier in an English soldier's uniform stood there, his pistol at the ready. She screamed as the giant stood up and lunged at the soldier, knocking the man and his pistol down as he went through the door to the outside. Fiona followed him out into the driving rain to find a group of soldiers standing in a semi circle around the hut. Nearly all had their muskets drawn, except for three who seemed to be carrying a wounded companion, though she was so frightened by the suddenness of it all that she scarcely took in the scene as the ground spun and the trees surrounding the hut seemed to take on a life of their own.
"Well don't just stand there. The man hit me down - fire!" Yelled the Englishman lying on the ground.
The soldiers stood staring, none of them daring to be the one to fire and none going to the help of the man on the ground.
The giant then lunged at the soldier closest to him, his mouth opened in a soundless scream and tearing the man's musket from his grasp, picked up the unfortunate and twirled him over his head, releasing him finally into his companions who fell or scattered in disarray. The soldier who had initially been knocked down, and seemed to be in command of the group, had meanwhile, during all the confusion, jumped up to his feet and made a move to grab Fiona. Realizing his intent she darted away from him, but in the dark and her panic she lost her footing and fell. The man was upon her before she could jump up again, pinning her down. She screamed and tried to fight him off but was unable to help herself, mainly due to her hurt wrist but also because the man had her pinned beneath him and he seemed to be nearly twice her weight.
"Thought you could get away, did ye? You bloody savage! Now I've got you and you're coming with me," said the soldier, none other than Sergeant Blackburn, as he began tearing at her bodice and ripping it. Those were the last words the unfortunate Sergeant Blackburn was to utter for in the next instant he was pulled off Fiona and hurled into the air. He fell to the ground hard, twitched once and then lay still, suffering the same fate as poor Green. Upon seeing this the frightened soldiers, who had stood as though rooted to the spot during the whole incident, now fled the scene, leaving both Green and their sergeant's bodies lying there. The giant looked over at Fiona who stood up shaken and petrified, her head, wrist and whole body throbbing with pain and everything swimming before her eyes. Without a word he darted back into the hut. The next minute he was out and signalling to her to follow him. She hesitated but a minute before making up her mind and falling into step behind him. They made their way down a steep hill with caution, looking ahead of them and in all directions for any signs of the scattered soldiers. The Giant's strong arms helped and supported Fiona over to where a burn meandered along the valley floor, which they proceeded to follow in a northerly direction.
They walked along the valley floor with the air growing colder and wetter until Fiona felt she could go no further, and with a small cry fell forward in a faint, her legs buckling under her. The giant turned in time to see her fall but not soon enough to stop her from falling full length into the burn. He gently picked her up and carried her until they reached the end of the valley. There he carefully put her down on the moss-covered ground before he began the steep climb to the top of the glen.
Having reached the top he stopped and looked over to the town of Fort William. Even at this distance and in spite of the storm a few lights could be discerned. The ore he looked the more he decided he was seeing things, for the lights seemed to be approaching. Suddenly afraid, he hid behind some trees waiting for the lights to get closer. Fearing it was probably a search party initiated by the soldiers he raced back down to Fiona, gently picked her up and carried her to the top of the glen where he gently placed her on the ground in the shelter of a large fir. With one last look at her inert body he took off at a run and disappeared into the night.
"Here she is!" Cried Joseph excitedly as he and his group came upon Fiona. He shone his lantern down on Fiona's pale face where she lay at the foot of the tall fire. "She's alive, the Lord be praised," he said, feeling her pulse. "Quick help me lift her, she must be near frozen and in need of a warm bed."
Fiona was quickly lifted up by willing hands and borne off to Fort William and the gentle ministering hands of Mona who, distressed at the sight of Fiona's pale face and her bandaged wrist, asked Joseph to go wake up Doctor Jackson to come and minister to her.
Everyone had long since left the MacLeods' modest cottage, after enjoying a 'wee dram' and warming themselves by the fire, and Joseph had still not returned with Doctor Jackson.
"Where can that man be?" Muttered Mona to herself. She sat down next to the hearth waiting for Joseph's return and checked and re-hung Fiona's damp clothing which was hung on a line to dry in front of the fire. She jumped up and checked on Fiona every time she heard her toss and turn. How pale she looked by the light of the sputtering candle she held high, thought Mona. I wonder what happened to her, and how did she manage to bind her wrist so well? Why was her bodice ripped? She peered at the bandage supporting the wrist and realized that it was not torn form one of Fiona's petticoats as she had originally thought, rather from some coarser fabric. Puzzle she checked it gently and decided that it would do fine until the doctor came. Then she checked once more to see if Fiona had a fever. Deciding she did not, she again sat down and rocked away as she waited and fretted.
Mona was dozing and Fiona's damp clothing, which had been hung on a line in front of the fire to dry out, had long since done so when the door suddenly burst open. A white faced Joseph stood there with two grim-faced, red-coated soldiers silhouette behind him in the light of dawn.
"What on earth? Joseph, what have you been up to?" Asked Mona, a note of fear creeping into her voice.
"Nothing lass, it seems that there has been some kind of accident with the English soldiers and that's where Doctor Jackson is. He'll be along right soon lass, now don't fret," he said coming into the cottage and signaling to her with hi eyes to ask no questions.
"Would you gentlemen be after having a cup of tea?" asked Mona.