The work wasn’t quite as exciting as highway robbery, but was a mite less dangerous. It was the skilled planning of Rob and his lieutenants, such as Alasdair Roy, that kept the parties one step ahead of pursuit.
Summer was high when a gillie on horseback tore into Rob’s dooryard, shouting. The young clansman leapt from his mount as the men emerged from the barracks and Rob and his family came out of the stone house to gape at what they were hearing. Dylan was as affected by the news as everyone else, though he had known all along it would come soon: Queen Anne had died the week before.
He went to the well for a conference with Sinann. When she appeared, it was with wide, frightened eyes. “I told you, Tink,” he said.
“Aye, ye did.”
“I can’t change history. Now George will come from Hanover, totally clueless, and for the next thirty years the Jacobites will resist because he will leave the Jacobite Lairds no choice. His blundering will make them think they can succeed. A lot of people are going to die.”
Anger clouded Sinann’s eyes. “And how many will die if we dinnae resist?”
Dylan thought of Ft. William, of the men who had wanted to kill him out of hatred for all Scots, and wondered.
Men came and went from the stone house. For weeks the meetings were daily. Another raid was made, this time near Kippen, a little closer to home than Stirling. Rob didn’t come on that trip, and the men were led by Alasdair Roy. The two oldest of Rob’s four sons, James and Coll who were teenagers, came as well. It was Coll’s first raid. The other sons, Duncan and Ronald, were too young yet to participate in a creach, and stayed in Glen Dochart with their mother. Dylan did his job, earned his six pence a day, and watched the next uprising foment around him.
There was plenty of talk at night about the “Wee German Lairdie” that had come to occupy the throne of England, who spoke no English and had no idea why the Scots weren’t getting along with their southern neighbors. His advisors let him remain ignorant, and his appointments systematically excluded anyone suspected of Jacobite sympathies. Disaffection among the Scottish aristocracy was rampant.
Late in the summer Dylan went with Alasdair Roy to collect mails from some particularly reluctant clients near Kingshouse. It was Alasdair’s job to convince them to cooperate, and Dylan’s role was to help Alasdair keep his hide intact by watching his back. Rob sent on this trip the minimum number of men required for this sort of job. Enough to give the appearance of confidence rather than brute strength. Yet the imagination of the clients aided them. In their meetings they tended to glance around, wondering where the rest of Rob’s men were. Dylan would stand a bit back from Alasdair to keep an eye on the surroundings, subtle in his scrutiny, as if he weren’t really paying attention. This gave the appearance of complacency that could only be interpreted by the client in one way. More of Roy’s men must be hiding just beyond the trees or rocks nearby. It was only a guess as to how many had been brought to coerce the payment of mail. Thus each cattle owner paid without argument. Two days passed without incident.
But on the third day, while walking a track at the bottom of a glen near Kingshouse, Dylan and Alasdair were taken by surprise as they came around one of the many large boulders rising from the ground in that area. Two English cavalrymen lurking behind the stone rode down on them, demanding they halt and surrender their weapons. “Alasdair Roy!” one of them shouted.
Alasdair swore and reached for his pistols, but hesitated as both soldiers set their guns to their shoulders, already well-aimed. The range was almost point-blank. The soldiers grinned. Alasdair glared.
Dylan’s heart galvanized. Letting himself be taken alive wasn’t an option. Without a moment’s thought, he ducked his head and spun in a high back roundhouse kick, striking the nearest horse on the muzzle. The surprised animal reared and neighed, backing away. The equally surprised soldiers had no idea what had just happened. They both fired. One musket ball flew wide and the other tugged at Dylan’s shirtsleeve then threw up a puff of dust in the trail.
Left with bayonets and swords, the soldiers slung their muskets and drew swords. But Dylan and Alasdair were already off and running. They scrambled up the steep hill to the north, which became ever more steep and craggy. The English horses weren’t up to the climb, and the soldiers were forced to dismount to give chase. But Rob Roy’s men knew the mountains well, and were Highlanders conditioned for travel on foot. One of the soldiers stopped to reload his musket, but by the time he got off a shot his quarry had ducked between two stones and zagged off into a patch of woods that gave cover as it took them behind another hill.
It was several miles, though, before Alasdair and Dylan stopped their flight. They were almost to Glen Dochart, well inside the territory of Iain Glas. So they stopped to rest for the night before going home.
They found a patch of heather between two boulders, wound themselves in their plaids, and lay down on it. Neither had said a word since the near disaster. But just as Dylan was about to drop off to sleep Alasdair muttered, “That was an ingenious move ye made, lad.”
Dylan said only, “Aye.” He was too angry at Sinann for letting the soldiers get the drop on him to talk to anyone but her. But he didn’t dare have that particular argument in front of Alasdair. He wasn’t even sure where she was. Probably hiding from the chewing out she knew must be coming.
Alasdair continued, “It’s a strange sort of fighting. Like French, but only just. What is it?”
This was not Dylan’s favorite subject. It came too close to areas of his existence he couldn’t explain. But he said, “I learned it in the colonies. It comes from the East Indies. I’ve been studying most of my life.”
Alasdair grunted in understanding. After a moment’s pause, he said, “You’ve a powerful hatred for the English, for a colonial with nae parents nor children kilt by them.”
Dylan hesitated before answering, then adjusted the plaid around him and said, “I would have a family if not for them. I was to have married. But then I was arrested.” Memories of last spring flooded him, and he sighed and pulled his plaid tighter. “Her name was Caitrionagh. I would have given my life for her.”
Alasdair’s voice went soft. “Is she dead, then?”
“No. After my arrest she was married off by her father to someone else.”
“Does she ken where you are?”
“No.”
“Does she care for you still, do ye think?”
There was a long pause before Dylan answered, then he said softly, “I hope so.”
In October the cattle which had been lifted that summer from Montrose’s lands were driven to Crieff, where herds from all over the Lowlands and southern Highlands were brought to market. When Dylan saw the little town, bursting at the seams with drovers and cattle—and the King’s troops dotted everywhere like maraschino cherries in a fruit salad—he was reminded of Western films he’d seen of cattle drives with acres of land covered with caterwauling beasts. The main difference here was that the drovers were on foot rather than horseback, many wore kilts, and all spoke a dizzying mixture of Gaelic, Lowland Scots, French, and English.
The presence of the King’s troops was overpowering. It gave Dylan the creeps to see so many of the red-coated bastards, putting their noses into everything they saw. He avoided them when he could, and prayed he wouldn’t run into one that would recognize him from up north.
Watching the herd shortly after they arrived, Dylan and Seumas sat idly on a low stone dike that ran along a lane into the town proper. Dylan picked some pieces from the crumbling wall and tried to juggle them, but failed to keep them from banging each other. Over and over again he picked the rocks up off the ground, and tried again. Then he saw a clutch of Redcoats coming and put his gaze on the ground and the rocks back on the wall.
As the soldiers passed, Seumas greeted them with a big smile and a Gaelic vulgarism, which caused them to stop. Dylan’s first urge was to throttle Seumas, his second to get the hell out of there. But he stayed put, wanting
a chase even less than a hassle.
One of the soldiers said to Seumas, “What’s your name?”
Still grinning, Seumas said, “I be of the Clan Murray, if it please ye. Or even if it dinnae.” Dylan shot a glance at Seumas, relieved he at least had enough sense to not give his real name. Seumas was a MacGregor, but for two hundred years none of the clan had used the name south of the Highland line, the very name having been outlawed by the Crown over one misappropriated cow during the sixteenth century. Rob called himself Campbell, his mother’s maiden name, and even the MacGregor chieftains used aliases to outsiders.
The soldier then turned to Dylan. “You?”
Dylan raised his gaze, and looked the Redcoat in the eye. He cleared his throat and said, “Dilean Mac a’Chlaidheimh.”
That brought raised eyebrows from the Englishmen. The one speaking said, “I’ve never heard of that particular clan.” He turned to his fellows. “They breed like rats up there, so now they’ve had to start new clans, eh?” That brought laughter from the other soldiers, then the speaker said to Dylan, “See that you tykes behave while you’re here, right? And show a proper reverence.”
Seumas was still grinning and gave a nod. “Aye, proper, indeed.”
The soldiers went on their way, and Dylan socked Seumas in the arm. Seumas just laughed as he rubbed it.
Once the herd was sold and the drovers paid, Dylan took the opportunity, while in relative civilization, to buy himself a new coat. He’d replaced that damned ruffled shirt months ago. The cloth from the English shirt now functioned for him as a face bandanna and a money pouch, both items sewn for him by Mary MacGregor and dyed dark green for the sake of camouflage. His new coat was sheepskin, and in the end was cheaper than his old wool one because the fashion of the day was not for leather. A wool coat, smartly cut, would have cost him twice as much as the far warmer sheepskin.
While he was at it, he bought a new pair of leggings, for the old ones had never been quite the same after the bloody hole shot in the left leg. The new pair was warmer and fit him better, having been cut for him rather than poor Alasdair Matheson. His shoes, he decided, were all right for now, though the rubber on the soles was a mite thin and the insoles had been history for months. They’d last him another winter, then he would replace them with brogues of this century, which were entirely leather and made to fit more like moccasins than shoes. He didn’t look forward to wearing shoes with no arch support, but would eventually have to.
On his way back to the empty field where his comrades were camped, he passed a high stone dike between two houses. Loud, raucous laughter rose from behind it, and Dylan thought there might be another cockfight going on. He’d happened past two others that week, and had stopped to watch, but found the sight of chickens killing each other less than entertaining.
However, this hilarity lacked the intensity of men betting on birds. It sounded more like anger than friendly competition. He was compelled to look. There he found a cluster of kilted men he knew to be of Clan Donald, with a jug of whiskey and a quaiche they passed between them, having fun at the expense of a man in breeches who spoke English with a Lowland accent. Dylan’s skin crawled at hearing the language, as it had since his escape from Ft. William.
The Lowlander pulled himself to as full a height as he could, and in a voice of smug authority said, “And ye’ll hand over that jug as well.”
That brought a shout of fresh laughter from the drovers. One of them, his speech slurred by a great deal of whiskey already consumed, said, “Because the wee German Lairdie needs the money? Am I to be so concerned with the coffers of that bloody foreigner?” Dylan guessed that the Lowlander was a tax man attempting to collect on the jug of whiskey, what Dylan’s more immediate ancestors would have called a “revenuer.” The MacDonald drover continued, “I suppose it would bruise his wee feelings for us to not pay tax on our own whiskey.”
The speaker was passed the cup, and he took a heavy swallow. He addressed his comrades. “D’ye know what I’m thinking, lads? I think this here Whig is remiss in not drinking to the health of the true King, is what.” He leaned into the Lowlander’s face. “And such a social blunder for one so high up in the government as he is!” The laughter rolled, and Dylan found himself chuckling.
Only then did the excise man seem to realize his office held no water with these men, and his eyes began to shift with an inkling of fear. He took a step back, perhaps thinking of retreat, but one Highlander grabbed the back of his coat and another held a dirk to his neck. The one with the cup in his hand said, “Here, man, mind your manners and drink to the health of King James VIII.”
The Lowlander tried to twist free, but the Highlanders held him and wrestled him to his knees in front of the man with the cup. On his knees, he protested weakly, but he was far outnumbered and surrounded by men armed to the teeth. “Say it,” said the MacDonald.
The tax man mumbled, “To the health of James.”
“His Majesty, James VIII, the true King,” came the impatient prompt.
“To the health of His Majesty, James VIII, the true King.” The cup was thrust in his face and he took a sip of whiskey. Then, almost too fast to see, the one with the dirk cut off the man’s ear. The Whig screamed and crouched as blood ran between his fingers. Dylan flinched. But at the same time he thought of the government this pompous, stupid man represented, which had held Dylan prisoner without cause and covered his back with deep, knotted scars he would bear for the rest of his life. Something primal inside him cheered the blood.
The excise man was allowed to flee, followed by the hilarity of the Highlanders, and his ear was tossed after him. Dylan wasn’t laughing, but neither was he sorry. He hoped the Whig would tell his story to other Lowlanders and Englishmen, who would then, perhaps, be a mite more respectful of the northerners.
Dylan returned to Rob’s crew, camped down the high road a piece. He cut across a plowed field then scaled a dike to get to the field where the now-sold Montrose spréidhe had been. Their fire was shielded by the dikes and a few trees clustered at the edge of the field, where the smoke dissipated in the branches overhead. Most of the men were scattered about the large fire, eating slabs of mutton cut from a spitted carcass. Talk was loud and high-spirited, and a small cluster of drovers was gathered around a chess game. Dylan slipped Brigid from his legging to cut himself some meat, then found a spot on the ground next to a dike to eat it. He wiped the grease from his blade onto his kilt, then slipped her into the scabbard.
There was a lull in the talk and he said, “Some MacDonald drovers just cut the ear off a gadger up the road a ways.” He tore off a bite of mutton. A quaiche of ale came his way, and he drank as well.
News of the ear-cutting was greeted with excitement and approval. Seumas asked, “Did he bleed well?”
Dylan swallowed. “Like a stuck pig. Screamed like a woman, too.”
The MacGregors laughed, and a few crude comments about effeminate Lowlanders were muttered among the men. Rob asked, “Does he yet live?”
Dylan nodded. “They let him go and he ran.” He took another bite of his supper.
Murchadh climbed into the field, over the dike on the tree side, then turned to help a young woman climb over after him. The men went silent. Murchadh called out to the twenty or so men present, “Who’s next?” He gestured to Rob and continued, “I mean, them as have nae wives close at hand.” Rob chuckled into his ale.
The woman looked around for a fresh volunteer and, finding none, made disappointed noises and stamped her foot. The pocket full of coins under her skirts jingled, and Dylan gathered Murchadh had been the last of the clients to be serviced that evening. It seemed each man had already had a turn. But then the whore caught sight of Dylan, and cried joyously in English, “Come, lad! Put yerself in my hands. I’ll take good care o’ ye!” She snatched up her skirts and showed him an ankle as if that were supposed to make him hot.
Danged if it didn’t catch his interest, too. He smiled at himself, he who ha
d been raised in an era where nearly-naked women were everywhere, catching sight of a bare ankle and a dirty foot and his blood quickening at what else might be found under there.
He shook his head at himself and his hormones, swallowed the last of his mutton, and washed it down with the ale. Paid, fed, clothed, and on his way to a good night’s sleep, he was in a cheerful mood. But he knew better than to curl up with a woman he knew was exposed to every communicable disease to be had among Rob’s less than fastidious drovers.
Particularly Murchadh, whose lack of nose Dylan had learned was the result of what they called “the French pox,” which he guessed was syphilis. Murchadh was in the stage when sores popped up in nasty places. Everyone knew he would eventually go insane and die. In this century, long before the advent of antibiotics, syphilis was as deadly, as ugly a death, and as incurable as AIDS would be in his own time.
And even if not for that, there was Cait always on his mind. No matter how well his body might respond to the whore, she wasn’t clean, she wasn’t Cait, and he wasn’t about to take her up on the offer.
The woman, who was youngish and not bad-looking, picked up her skirts again and came to him. She flounced onto the ground at his feet and leaned toward him between his knees. Her bright red hair was somewhat the worse for wear from her earlier business exchanges, and much of it dangled around her face in limp curls and strings. In the past/future he’d seen photos of high-fashion models and movie starlets at awards ceremonies with that look, but here it wasn’t a fashion statement and only meant sloppiness. She cooed, “Come on, big fellow. Come show us what yer made of.”
Dylan pulled in one foot, leaving only his left knee up, and was glad his feileadh mór had enough folds to fall loose over his legs and hide his reaction to the girl. He looked around at the other men, who were waiting to hear his reply. Most of them knew about Cait, but he didn’t figure they thought he would ever see her again. He knew they expected him to climb over the dike to dally under the trees with the whore.
Son of the Sword Page 29