His reverence dulled in an instant when MacGregor took the collar and tail of Dylan’s shirt and yanked the fabric away from his back. He routed the shout of pain that rose in his throat through his nose where it became no more than a snort. He collapsed to the ground again, and his brain went fuzzy as spots swam before his eyes. But then the shirt was pulled over his head and water was taken into the sleeve of it so MacGregor could clean his back.
Dylan clenched his teeth against the pain as MacGregor wiped blood from him.
“May I ask how it was you attracted the ire of Her Majesty’s minions?”
Dylan pressed his face to the ground. “They thought I knew something I might be willing to tell. They were wrong.”
MacGregor and his friend chuckled. “Who was it ordered the dirty work?”
“An officer stationed up north, near Ciorram. Captain . . . I mean, Major Bedford. I don’t know what his own orders were. I think he may have been working on his own.”
MacGregor grunted. “I’ve nae heard of him.” He muttered to his friend about “Mary’s jar,” and Alasdair went to fetch something from a cloth bag that sat away from the fire. When MacGregor opened it, there was an earthy, animal smell. Then he began dabbing whatever it was on Dylan’s back.
Dylan’s eyelids drooped as the pain eased.
“If he was working on his own, that would be illegal. Without a conviction or sanction of any kind, I mean.”
It was Dylan’s turn to grunt. “I’ll just have to sue the sonofabitch, then, won’t I? That’ll teach him.”
Again the red-haired men chuckled. MacGregor finished spreading the goop and said, “There’s still a bit of blood, but that’ll stop quick enough. The salve will keep your shirt from sticking to you while you heal.”
He handed the bloody shirt back to Dylan, who sat up and pulled it on. Wet and dirty as it was, it was better than sitting around naked. And it would dry soon enough. His kilt and sporran were still wet from the river, but they’d both been wet before. He wrapped the plaid around himself like a blanket, and the cloth immediately began to warm and dry, sending a thick smell of sheep into the air. He took the crucifix, tied the break in its linen cord and restored it to his neck, then checked his sporran and found everything there except the threepence. No surprise. He figured he was lucky to have anything back at all. Including his life. And especially his weapons. Besides, the bulk of his money was still in Ciorram, and he’d not yet had to retrieve the ring.
“I expect your sympathies lie elsewhere than with the Crown, then?” MacGregor’s companion said.
MacGregor said, “Alasdair, let the man eat.”
Alasdair fell silent while he served up pieces of the game bird, and Dylan ate with a relish he’d never known possible. His long-empty stomach balked at the solid food, but, taking deep breaths, he refused to let it come back up.
When the meat was gone, Dylan lay back on one elbow, sucking idly on the marrow of a leg bone, and thought about Alasdair’s question. He knew the Jacobites would fail. Scotland would be part of the United Kingdom for at least another three hundred years, and there was nothing he, nor Rob Roy, nor anyone, could do about it.
However, the English musket and the English whip that had each brought him nearly to death had put a mark on his soul that would never be erased, nor forgiven. He’d seen the hatred in the eyes of the Redcoats, and knew they thought the occupants of this land to be no better than animals. All through this century, as through centuries already past, their aim would be the genocide of the Gaels. The killing would be systematic and ruthless, and whatever innocent lives might be saved in resisting the English occupation would be worth the Jacobite struggle.
He cleared his throat and said, “You ask me how I feel about Her Majesty’s red-coated pigs?” He twirled the bone in his mouth, then pulled it out to look at it thoughtfully.
“Aye?”
“I say, long live King James VIII, and death and damnation to every Sassunach north of the Borderlands.”
The other two nodded, and repeated, “Long live the King.” Dylan had a sense that Alasdair wanted to talk, but MacGregor wasn’t ready yet and hushed him.
Very quickly, sleep overwhelmed Dylan. He curled up in his plaid by the fire, still clutching the bone, and went to that place where the English couldn’t come.
The next time he knew consciousness, he had no idea where he was nor how long he’d slept. He lay on what felt like a rack, made of pine branches covered with ferns. He was no longer in any clearing. All he could see were mountains covered in heather and dotted with granite chunks large enough to hide a small house. He was lying alongside the south side of such a boulder, in a hollow given minimal cover by some gorse. He couldn’t move, and his entire body felt boneless. Thirst was his first thought, and he asked for water. A quaiche was put to his lips, but he was only allowed to sip once, then once again when he asked for more. He tried to look around, but his eyes were gummed shut. He went to rub them clear, and found his hands were trembling.
“Where are we?” He could barely croak out the words.
“Rannoch Moor. You’ve been ill. We had to carry you.”
“How long?”
Alasdair shrugged. “Couple of days. We couldnae leave you behind, and we couldnae stay or else be taken by the Redcoats ourselves. If you’ve heard of Rob, you’ll know why.”
Dylan nodded. Sometime the year before, MacGregor had been outlawed for a debt he didn’t owe, ruined by the Marquis of Montrose who had wanted his land and had gotten it.
Alasdair continued, “You had a fever. For a while it looked as if we might not have to carry you any farther. But we’re in a safe place now where you can gather your strength.” His voice took on a mild, teasing tone. “Then do yer own walking.”
Dylan sat up, pleased to find he could. He took the quaiche from Alasdair and sipped some more. When the water hit his stomach, hunger raged. “Something to eat?” His voice would go no more than a whisper.
Alasdair smiled. “A good sign.” He took the quaiche with the water, and reached into his sporran for a small cloth bag. Then he dumped a handful of oatmeal from it into the cup. He stirred the mush with his finger, and handed it back to Dylan. It was lumpy, and held together as Dylan picked globs out with his fingers. Hungry as he was, it tasted heavenly.
While he ate, he looked around. There was no evidence of MacGregor. As if reading his mind, Alasdair said, “Rob went on ahead, for he’d pressing business at home. I was to stay here until either you could walk, or I could bury you.”
Dylan was oddly grateful they would have bothered to bury him, but much more pleased it appeared he would be walking out of there. He lay back down on the bed of branches, which turned out to be a stretcher of some sort, the branches and ferns laid over a frame of saplings lashed together. He slept again.
For two more days he and Alasdair kept their camp. The red-haired man asked some questions about his time at Ft. William, and Dylan answered them, but on the whole there was little talking. Dylan slept and ate, and slept some more.
On the third day a call of nature made him decide he felt strong enough to stand. Alasdair went to help him, but Dylan waved him off and struggled to his feet like a newborn colt. Feet planted wide, he stood by the fire and swayed. His back itched and his leg ached dully, but he still felt better than he had since . . .
His heart sank as he thought of Cait and their last night together. But he took a deep breath and looked around. He said, to Alasdair, “Are we ready to go on?”
“Do you think you can do much walking?”
He looked around as if it would help him get his bearings. “How much farther do we have to go?”
Alasdair shrugged. “Oh, two or three days’ walk. If you feel up to it, we could start in the morning.”
Dylan nodded, and went around to the far side of the boulder.
“Where are we going?” asked Dylan as they walked the next day, up the long slope to a mountain pass, headed south. Cait’s r
ing now hung with the crucifix on the cord around his neck again, having been retrieved the day before and cleaned with a splash of whiskey he’d bummed from Alasdair. The red-haired Scot hadn’t commented on the sudden appearance of the ring, but had given a firm opinion on the waste of perfectly good whiskey.
Dylan could have stood another couple of days’ recovery, but knew neither of them had the luxury of lounging around Rannoch Moor much longer. If he could walk, then he needed to do so. He limped heavily, using for support a staff cannibalized from his stretcher.
Alasdair said, “We’re going to Glen Dochart, I might as well tell you. It’s nae secret where we’ve taken refuge.”
“You’re all outlaws?”
He laughed. “Oh, aye. The lot of us. But not all started out that way. Some of Rob’s men are nothing more than jobless lads with nowhere else to make a living. So they come to reive cattle from the Marquis of Montrose, under the protection of his political rival, Iain Glas of Breadalbane. He’s a Campbell who is cousin to Rob’s mother. As long as we’re in Campbell territory, that Whig Montrose willnae dare bring men to take us.”
Alasdair’s voice took on a pointed tone. “It’s a good place to be, for a man as can take care of himself. Rob does well for us, and pays, besides food and a roof, half an English shilling a day on days you’re occupied, plus a share of the price when the spréidhe are sold.”
Dylan was struggling to keep up Alasdair’s pace, but refused to call for a rest. He said, “And you’re telling me this because . . .”
There was a moment’s pause, then, “Because Rob wishes to offer you employment if you’re of a mind to take it. Before he left, he told me that if you live it would be because you’re either blessed with uncommon good luck, or else you’re the toughest young lad he’s ever clapped eyes on. Either way, he would like you among his men.”
After the first flush of pride at the invitation to work for the legendary Rob Roy, Dylan remembered the man had also commanded Jacobite troops at Sheriffmuir. That defeat would put an end to next year’s uprising. A few months ago he would have declined because of that. But now, outlawed and stripped of everything he’d had to lose—not to mention a fair piece of his hide—his outlook was changed. He looked around for Sinann, knowing she must be there, wishing she could appreciate what he was about to do. “Aye,” he said to Alasdair. “I’ll work for Rob.” It looked like he was going to be fighting for the Jacobites at Sheriffmuir after all.
Rob’s home at Glen Dochart was a low, thatched house of mortared stone, which stood facing the meandering River Dochart on a flat glen bottom surrounded by towering, heather-covered granite. The southern slope of the glen was more heavily forested than anywhere Dylan had seen in Scotland before, but the house was in the clear.
Dylan and Alasdair arrived at sunset when the family was inside, eating. Some chickens roosted on the stack of peats outside, and when the door opened Dylan could smell one of their brethren roasted on the household fire. Alasdair went in, and a few moments later returned with MacGregor.
Now that Dylan was standing, he was a bit surprised at how short Rob was. MacGregor’s height was probably about five feet nine inches, a few inches below his own six feet. But he had a bearing that made him seem taller, and long, muscular arms that Dylan saw would make him a formidable opponent with a sword.
MacGregor seemed elated and just a little surprised to see him, shook his hand, and with a warm smile welcomed him to his employ. “How is the back healing, lad?” He seemed genuinely concerned with Dylan’s welfare.
Dylan shrugged, glad now that he could. “It’s much better. That salve you put on it did a lot of good.”
“I’ll pass your appreciation to Mary, for it was she who sent it with me.” He then addressed Alasdair. “Take him to the barracks house, and see he’s made comfortable. Then I’ll see you back here straight away.” With that, and a nod, he returned to his house and his supper.
The barracks house was behind and upstream from the MacGregor home, a peat construction set against a hill, which looked like a part of the hill itself. Thick moss grew in the thatching, along with some grass, which at the moment was grazed by a goat that lifted its head and stared at them with dull yellow eyes as they approached. Alasdair chased it off with shouts and arm-waving, then said to Dylan, “Goat dung seeping through thatching in heavy rain is never a pleasant thing.”
They ducked through the low door into the dimly lit barracks to be greeted by four men at their supper. The hearth lay at one end of the room under the chimney hole, and there was a trestle table in the middle where the men sat on stools. Two candles were set directly on the table boards among the drippings of previous candles. They provided the only light. Five sets of bunks stood against the walls, making a total of ten beds, seven of which had straw mattresses. Other than the beds, table, and stools, there were no furnishings, nor was there room for anything else. The single window was open to the night, having no glass nor shutters.
“Gentlemen,” there was a snickering which Alasdair ignored, “welcome our new friend, Dylan.” The lack of a last name identification was not lost on Dylan. “He’s fresh from the dungeon at Ft. William, so he willnae be sleeping on his back for a while, now.” The mood in the room changed from wariness to understanding, and a couple of the men nodded. They each obliged with “Hallo, a Dhilein,” and Alasdair asked which bunk was available. One large man with shaggy black hair and no nose pointed to a set in the far corner, the only pair with a top bunk empty of personal belongings. Dylan went to deposit his sword and sporran while Alasdair directed him to help himself to the stew on the fire. There were wooden cups and spoons stacked on the table. Then he went to his own supper.
Dylan investigated the stew, and scooped some from the iron pot. He straddled a stool and sat with the other men, and smiled amiably before digging in. Mutton. Dylan had developed a taste for mutton over the past several months, and this was better than Gracie’s. He looked around at the other men and said, “I thought there would be more of us.”
No-nose grunted, then said, “Rob can muster a thousand men if need be. The retainers amount to about fifty or sixty, but he keeps us scattered for the sake of safety.”
“Ah.” Dylan ate some more, then said, “You all got names?”
They chuckled and grinned, and No-nose said, “Oh, aye. We’re called all sorts of names.” Dylan smiled in appreciation of the joke, and No-nose obliged with introductions. He indicated the dull-looking fellow with reddish-brown hair across from him, “He’s Cailean nan Chasgraidh” Colin of the Massacre. From his age Dylan guessed he was a survivor of Glencoe. The big one continued, “This fellow over here is Alasdair Og.” Young Alasdair was, indeed, very young and had no beard yet. “That’s Seumas Glas.” Pale James was pale, but had deep rosettes of pink in his cheeks and a robust build. “I’m known locally as Murchadh Dubh.” Black Murdo. Dylan hoped he was named for his coloring and not for his personality. He also wondered at the lack of nose.
Murchadh continued, “You’ll want to shave that off.”
Dylan felt of his beard which, though long enough, had never achieved anything better than a modest cover. He had no idea what it looked like on him, but he could tell the hair was straight and lay flat against his face. “How come?”
“If you’ve been to the garrison, you’ve been seen by nearly every Redcoat in the Western Highlands. Shaving will give you a different appearance.” Murchadh turned back to his stew. “Besides, that raggedy crop isn’t worth the growing.”
Dylan scratched his chin and would have said something equally smartass in reply, except that what Murchadh said was true. He did need to change his appearance, and his beard wasn’t much to brag about. He asked to borrow a whetting stone, and when one was tossed to him he went to his bunk to sharpen his sgian dubh.
Seumas, the only clean-shaven man present, also threw him a copper pot and said, “Go fill this from the well and put it on the fire. Once you’ve trimmed, the shaving will go
easier if you put a hot rag on it first.” He spoke as if he were talking to someone who had never shaved before, which for Dylan was just as well. The last time he had shaved, it was with aerosol cream and a disposable safety razor. He did as he was told.
Out by the well, he glanced over at the front of the stone house where MacGregor and his family lived. Two horses had arrived since sunset, and there were many voices coming from the house. He wondered what was up.
Sinann popped into existence, sitting on the edge of the well. Dylan jumped, startled. “Where have you been?”
“Right here. You didn’t need me, and it was plain you did need to not be seen talking to yourself, and were in no condition to apprehend that fact. So I removed temptation and disappeared until you were alone.”
Dylan nodded toward the house. “What’s going on in there?”
“I’ve no idea. Care for me to find out?”
He nodded. Knowledge was power, and if there might be a way to not lose next year it would be his knowledge of the situation that would change things. “Tell me what you can. I need to know more if I’m going to do any good in the uprising.”
She smiled. “I’m proud of you, lad. I knew you’d come around.”
He did not reply, but returned to the barracks with his pot of water and a creepy feeling in his gut.
While the water heated on the stove, Dylan trimmed his beard as close as he could without cutting himself. Then he sharpened the knife again until he was satisfied it might not shred his face. He pressed the towel dunked in hot water against what was left of his beard until the edge was off the heat, then began to shave. It wasn’t as difficult as he’d thought it would be. He cut himself only once, just at first, but then got the hang of holding the knife correctly. The beard came off and left his face bare for the first time in ten months. Then, while he was at it, he whacked the ends of his hair to get them off his shoulders.
Son of the Sword Page 27