by Mark Jackson
McDonald looked across at Evan, who was still gazing at the island.
“It’s beautiful, Mac. Whatever made you leave it?”
He turned back to his view. McDonald stared at the Welshman as if he had just uttered a prophecy. Mac was seeing the jagged cliffs of Drumgoyne on the day he had left the island to join the Gordon Highlanders.
“What do we do when we reach the village?” asked Battle.
McDonald pulled himself back to the plan.
McDonald took the direct approach.
“You ram the pier. Then head up the road. The estate is just under a mile away.”
Drumgoyne village was quiet. Fishermen were mending nets. From his up-turned barrel, Ritchie looked across at a Boer sitting in one of the fishing vessels. The harbour porter, Ritchie, carted goods up to the castle. The newcomers had taken his barrow, now he had to heave everything by hand.
Another Boer was sitting on the deck of the tug. Ritchie looked up the jetty.
A handsome, raven-haired woman was carrying a wicker basket along the shore street. Her name was Karen Gordon. She was not a young woman, but you don’t have to be young to be beautiful. The fishermen greeted her as she passed, Ritchie giving her a wave.
Ritchie was not the only man watching her. Watching the woman, his face half covered by the shadow of the doorway, was Skinstad. Only his good side showed. As the woman approached, he smiled. She stared at him with bright inquisitive eyes, smiling slightly back she walked on.
The Commissioner was giving orders as he climbed into a police car. Officers were running to obey. The courtyard at New Scotland Yard was in a frenzy. The Commissioner’s face was a shiny red. His blood was up. Derwent came scurrying out of the building.
“You. Derwent. Where’s Reeves?”
“Scotland, sir. He left this morning, sir. Is he after the ravens, sir?”
“Get in!”
The Commissioner banged the car’s roof
“Euston station and hurry.”
The car screeched forwards and skidded into the street, scattering pigeons and pedestrians.
Inspector Reeves and Sergeant Tucker watched the countryside whiz past, a young constable dozing beside them.
Tucker broke the silence.
“Have you been to Scotland before, sir? They say it’s beautiful.”
Reeves looked tired and gave his subordinate a sour look. Tucker, who had never ventured out of London before, turned back to the fast moving countryside.
In the castle shadows, Skinstad watched Campbell and two of his countrymen prising open crates.
Laird skipped from one box to another.
“It must be here somewhere. Keep looking.”
Skinstad finished stropping his with blade and tucked it away. His stomach was growling and he knew where to find food.
Skinstad emerged from the castle’s front entrance. Rudi and another Boer eyed him cautiously. Skinstad’s smile was discouraging, but he only showed his good side. It was a habit he was developing.
Battle was purring over the Pauline’s engine.
“You lovely old girl.”
He turned to address two prone figures sweating on the engine room floor.
“Nice old lady you got here.”
Archie and the skipper had their hands tied and mouths gagged. Archie looked terrified, a mouse staring at a cat. The skipper looked hurt, angry and mean.
Battle considered him. The skipper averted his eyes.
“Tut, tut. Wrong again, me old son. We ain’t the villains, we’re the flamin’ cavalry.”
Battle laughed at his own humour.
“Never mind. Soon be done to rights.”
The Pauline was manoeuvred off a small cove. A thin line of sand provided a break in the scarred overhanging cliffs. Thomas was at the wheel. Battle, his shoulders bulging, lowered a small rowing boat, with McDonald and Keilty aboard. McDonald gave the thumbs up sign and Battle released the winch.
McDonald wheeled the small rowing boat away from the Pauline. He pulled hard to swing the boat, which doubled as the Pauline’s lifeboat, around.
“I was born here, Ged.”
Keilty with his small wooden case on his knees, nodded back calmly. His face had no expression, except perhaps a mild inquisitiveness.
The rowing boat headed towards the narrow beach under the cliffs. It ducked and bobbed, as McDonald struggled against the current. The sea and the cliffs were black slabs. McDonald aimed for the beach. He was not looking forward to the climb, but Keilty sat upright, relaxed, like a missionary heading to church.
Hanging on by his boot tips, McDonald looked up from his climb. Sweat blanketed his face. The exertion was telling.
Keilty looked down at his comrade. Keilty had reached the top. He hammered a spike into the ground, looped a rope around his waist and lay flat on the ground.
McDonald struggled on. His face hardened. Another couple of feet. He reached up to grip one of the pegs Keilty had left. McDonald stretched again. His face torn with effort, as his hand missed the peg. He slipped.
His cry was cut off by the vice-like grip of Keilty’s hand on his wrist. McDonald looked up into the cold blank eyes of the Irishman.
Mac had not fought all over the globe to die on Drumgoyne.
McDonald’s will swelled. His toe found purchase. He swung his other hand up and hauled himself to the final peg.
McDonald appeared at the top of the cliff. He rolled away from the edge. He was breathing heavily.
Keilty was lighting a cigarette. For him, the ascent had been an elementary one. A year ago, he had been a member of the ill-fated expedition to conquer Mount Everest, which had claimed the lives of two of his fellow mountaineers, Mallory and Irvine.
Keilty began to pack away his rope, an Enfield slung over his back.
Keilty looked to the Scot. McDonald nodded and hauled himself to his feet. Keilty picked up his wooden briefcase and the two turned inland.
Sturm was sitting on the deck of the tug, his sleeves rolled up.
Along the shore, a lone figure was walking towards the tug. Sturm recognised Ritchie. The persistent Islander was becoming a nuisance.
The narrow track ran down towards a small croft, a single storey granite stone house. A small dwelling huddled against the hillside. Washing was flapping furiously in the blustering wind.
Skinstad was following Karen, as she disappeared behind some of the washing. He had seen her buy bread and fruit at the village.
When he reached the croft, there was no sign of anyone. Only the rows of sheets and shirts billowing like giant flags.
Skinstad rapped on the door. His smile froze as the door opened. Two barrels of a shotgun were inches from his face.
Skinstad’s smile widened to cover his shock, but that only served to make him appear more grotesque as his face swelled under Sturm’s tight stitches.
“This is my hoose and ye’ll leave now.” The gun was steady in Karen’s hand.
Skinstad nodded slowly.
This was no time to be rash. The Afrikaner edged backwards as Karen advanced. He kept his hands in full view.
Skinstad pushed the flapping washing aside as he carefully retreated.
The Afrikaner lurched to the side as a body crashed into him. Skinstad fought back. A forehead smashed into his nose. McDonald breathed down on him.
“Remember me?” Mac’s words were through clenched teeth.
Recognition came to the Boer. He smashed his fist into the side of McDonald’s head. Again a blow like a bludgeon. The third blow sent McDonald reeling.
Skinstad leapt up. He moved to rush McDonald as the old soldier began to stand. Skinstad stopped. Blood covered his lower face. Keilty stood at the corner of the croft.
Karen was bewildered by the sudden combat in front of her. She strode forward aiming her gun. It was knocked upwards, discharging the shot into the air.
Robert Gordon, Karen’s brother, was chopping logs at the rear of the croft. His swinging action froze a
s the shotgun blast and Karen’s scream seared through the air. He leapt over the splintered woodpile and charged around the cottage with the axe swinging in his hand.
Robert Gordon leaped over the dyke and took in the sight of his sister and the three men. The third man was Keilty, holding Karen’s gun as though it is a walking stick.
Skinstad’s grin became more malevolent.
McDonald pointed at him.
“Just you and me.”
Skinstad laughed. It broke the spell and Gordon rushed at him with his axe. Keilty’s leg upended him. Keilty placed his boot on the ghillie’s spine.
“It’s their fight.”
Gordon strained to see his sister. She was regaining her composure. She nodded to her brother, reassuring him that Keilty meant her no harm.
Skinstad laughed again and moved in a half circle. McDonald took a deep breath and edged the other way. Skinstad slid forward.
“You’re a dead man, Engelsman.”
With cat-like speed, Skinstad leapt forward, slashing with his knife. Karen and Gordon flinched at the appearance of the weapon.
The blade flashed across McDonald’s arm, severing McDonald’s coat. Unlike their last meeting, this time, McDonald stepped inside, slamming his elbow and forearm into Skinstad’s neck. The Boer’s head snapped back as McDonald flicked his fist into Skinstad’s shattered nose.
The Afrikaner stepped back to keep his balance. McDonald’s other fist pulverised his face. Skinstad swayed. McDonald’s boot sent him to his knees. The knife fell to the ground.
Skinstad was on his knees. He tried to clear his head. His hand reached out and his fingers closed on the knife. He pulled himself to his feet. McDonald stood three feet away. The highlander’s eyes were brutal.
Skinstad hauled himself to his feet, tightened his grip on the knife and charged. A white shirt flapped across his chest and face. It blew away again, but the shirt remained fastened to Skinstad’s chest by a small stabbing knife. McDonald stepped back. Blood seeped onto the shirt. Skinstad’s eyes glazed. As he fell the shirt came away from the washing line. It partially covered his inert body.
McDonald looked from Skinstad to the watching trio. Keilty’s face registered nothing, the islanders looked bewildered and frightened. McDonald smiled at them.
“I am John Cameron McDonald. This island was once my home.”
Chapter Fifteen
Bareknuckled Battle
Kruger was standing with Janni at the main entrance to Drumgoyne Castle.
“The rendezvous is fixed. Sturm said he would stay down with the tug. He said that the natives were getting restless,” said Janni.
Kruger nodded.
“Start packing it away. If Laird insists on wearing the crown, indulge him. And watch his man Campbell.”
Janni nodded and turned away to obey.
In the sparse, rough-hewed croft, Gordon and Karen were listening to McDonald. It was a small room, with a low ceiling, and McDonald was too tall for the room. Karen sat in an elegant rocking chair. It was the grandest piece of furniture in the house. There was a pitted table for eating and a small stove. Two small windows provided the light. A worn patterned rug on the earthen floor. Mac’s energy dominated the room.
“I know Laird is your master. He was mine once.”
Gordon acknowledged the point.
“I remember your father. And you, though you left us young, John Cameron McDonald.”
McDonald looked surprised and vaguely uneasy.
“You saved Karen’s life. Her husband was a cousin of yours.”
McDonald looked with a fresh eye at Karen. She met his gaze. Beautiful and wild.
“Your father was a proud man. I’ll bide and fight aside you.”
Karen stepped forward.
“So will I.”
Mac looked put out and about to protest.
“I let one man go away and fight alone. He never came back,” said Karen as she looked defiantly at Mac, who was reassessing this woman.
“The Somme.”
McDonald nodded. He had fought there, too, but had survived.
“Bydand.”
“Bydand,” the motto of the Gordon Highlanders echoed in the small croft.
The two clasped hands. Karen thrust out her hand. Mac nodded slowly and took it.
“Bydand,” she said.
There came two knocks on the door, followed by two more, and it opened to reveal Keilty.
“Time’s short, Mac.”
The Pauline was just off the headland. Battle and Thomas hauled out the trunk they had brought from London.
Battle settled it down, taking most of the strain.
“Still heavy even without the Enfields.”
They set it down near the prow of the boat. Thomas opened it.
Battle was stunned.
“Blinkin’ shoot me.”
“Hush, Tommy, else you’ll tempt fate.” Thomas made a sign to ward off evil.
Battle lifted out a Vickers 303-inch machine gun. Thomas hauled out the tripod.
“Where the ruddy hell did you get this from, Doubtin’?”
Thomas gave Battle a wry smile.
“You have some very resourceful relatives, Tommy.”
Battle shook his head in wonder, hugging the powerful machine gun.
“Jack’s a flamin’ marvel.”
The light from the croft window fell on the rough wooden table. Keilty’s face was serene. In his hands was the sniper’s rifle. He pulled out a long gleaming bullet and slotted it into the breech.
At that second, the door opened, Keilty looked up, swinging the rifle in one movement.
Karen looked startled.
“Sorry, I couldn’t mind the code.”
Keilty smiled. Karen smiled back cautiously. The Irishman meant her no harm, but she sensed how deadly he was. Keilty rose and hoisted the sniper’s tool over his head.
Outside, Mac, Keilty and Gordon picked up their guns. As they did so, the croft door opened. Karen had tied back her unruly hair. She had changed and was now wearing hunting gear. In her hand was a hunter’s rifle. Mac and Keilty exchanged a glance. Karen noticed it.
“My father taught me. Who taught you?”
This time, Mac smiled. This woman was a warrior. Karen pulled on her bonnet.
Four figures, Gordon, McDonald, Keilty and Karen were running across the open ground, spreading out in an arrow formation.
Thomas checked the machine gun. He turned and gave the thumbs up to Battle in the wheelhouse. The Cockney nodded and swung the boat around.
Thomas made the sign of the cross.
“Our Father, who…”
Battle looked out at his colleague and shook his head in wonder.
“You’re a rum dabster, Doubtin’.”
Battle looked at his watch. It was five minutes to 11.
“Right on schedule.”
A young Boer, Pieter, was dozing on the deck of a small yawl, berthed beside the tug. He turned in the direction of the harbour entrance, as the low purr of a distant engine reached him. The faint hum could be heard above the sound of the sea and it was getting closer.
The Pauline rounded the headland. Pieter snatched up his rifle and turned towards the tug.
“Sturm! STURM!”
The giant Afrikaner emerged from the tug’s wheelhouse. He followed Pieter’s pointing arm. Sturm frowned. The approaching vessel was not slowing, instead, it was heading towards the harbour.
In the lea of a small shed, Ritchie watched the course of the boat with growing interest.
Ritchie’s excitement grew.
“They’re going to ram them. Go on!”
Sturm looked from the vessel to the pier where he could make out Ritchie’s excitement. Sturm’s puzzlement was rapidly turning to alarm.
“Vegstellings!(Action stations!)” – he yelled.
Two more Boers rushed from inside the tug, but taking in the rapidly approaching boat, they seemed uncertain what to do. Sturm’s eyes widened.
Thomas’s eyes could be seen behind the machine gun. He depressed the trigger and the Vickers juddered into action.
Bullets crashed into the side of the tug, cutting a path to where the two Boers were crouching. The first was slammed into the side of the wheelhouse. The second jolted backwards. Sturm dived for cover.
Battle turned the Pauline slightly.
“Hang on, Doubtin’!”
The Pauline crashed into the small fishing boat beside the tug. Wood splintered. Thomas desperately hung on. Battle was braced in the wheelhouse.
Sturm slid a few feet from the impact.
Pieter was thrown off his feet.
Two more Boers charged out from one of the harbour buildings and started running towards the crash.
Pieter struggled to his feet. He rose to find Battle’s Enfield trained on him. He experienced a second of fear and panic, before the retort from Battle’s gun sent him sprawling, clutching his leg.
Sturm watched it all.
Battle was moving to get off the stricken Pauline.
“Come on, Doubtin’.”
Thomas had not heard him. He crawled back to the Vickers and righted it. In his sights were two Boers advancing down the pier. One loosened off a shot, which flew over Thomas’s head.
Thomas was chanting.
“And he smote them down…”
The death rattle of the gun drowned his words as the two Boers were cut down.
Battle leapt on to the tug. He turned back.
“Doubtin’! You stupid old Welsh goat, get off there!”
Thomas came out of his reverie and signalled that he understood.
Battle returned the thumbs up signal and turned away. Suddenly, Sturm’s fist crashed into his face. Battle was knocked backwards into the railing. He looked up at the huge Afrikaner.
Battle’s nose was wrecked. Not for the first time.
On the pier, one of the Boers was trying to reach his gun.
He was injured, but could see Sturm and Battle facing each other. A boot landed on his hand. He cried out in pain and twisted to look up. Ritchie’s cold face stared back.
“You’ve come to the wrong island, laddie.”