High on a Mountain

by Tommie Lyn

  “No. Now. I want him now,” Latharn snapped.

  He realized he’d made a mistake when he saw the look Hadley gave him. He took a breath to calm himself. He called upon his charm to ingratiate himself with the planter again.

  “I’m sorry. Please excuse my impertinence. I just have…I have some heavy concerns on my mind. No excuse for rudeness, I realize. Please forgive me.”

  ____________

  “What make you so valuable?” James asked Ailean when he and the two women entered the barracks to bring the men their evening meal.

  “Valuable? I have no value,” Ailean said.

  “Yeah, you do. That man trying to buy you from master today. Say he don’t care what you cost, he pay it. Why you reckon he want you so bad?”

  Ailean didn’t answer.

  “Must be some reason.”

  Ailean stared into James’ eyes for a long moment and turned to Ruairidh. He told Ruairidh in Gaelic, “Please explain it to him. I don’t know the words to tell of it. And I can’t talk about it.”

  Ruairidh looked at Ailean, sighed, and said to James, “The man wants to kill Ailean.”

  “Why he want to kill him? Alan a good man.”

  After giving Ailean a sideways glance, Ruairidh took a deep breath and began. “Ailean married Mùirne MacGriogair, the woman Latharn loved.”

  At the mention of her name, Mùirne came to Ailean from his memories, and he closed his eyes. She smiled shyly at him, as she had done the first time he met her. That image faded, and he saw her on the morning after their wedding, proudly wearing the curtch that proclaimed she belonged to him.

  One by one, images of Mùirne blended, ebbed and flowed through his mind. And then came the words of their argument, the last words of their ordinary life together, echoing from the past, searing him with guilt, torturing him with the knowledge of how he’d hurt her.

  His fingers reached behind the waist of his triubhas and clutched at the scrap of tunic he’d saved. He swallowed hard, trembling with the effort to endure the torment of Ruairidh’s words as they re-opened his wounds.

  “He tried to kill Ailean, meant to kill him, but…he accidentally killed her instead. I think he wants to buy Ailean, take him away and kill him.”

  James stood silently, looking at Ailean with an unfathomable expression in his eyes. “We can’t let that happen,” he said softly.

  When all the men finished eating, James left the barracks without another word. After he left, Ruairidh and Ailean sat on the edge of Ailean’s cot, talking in low voices.

  “You have to find a way to escape.”

  “I ran from Latharn once, and I vowed I’d never run from him again. I wouldn’t be much of a man if I ran now.”

  “You have to. You heard him. I’m sure he means to kill you. And you have no way to defend yourself.”

  “I have to find a way. My da didn’t raise me to be a coward,” Ailean said. “It would be better to die bravely than live as a coward. What would my da think of me if—”

  “Listen to me. Leave here. Find a way to arm yourself, then come back and face him,” Ruairidh said. “That’s not running away. That’s preparing yourself for a fight. Every warrior prepares himself for a fight.”

  Ailean allowed Ruairidh’s words to sink in. “You’re right. It wouldn’t be running. I’d be preparing myself for a fight.”

  “Aye. But we have to think of a way to get you away from here.”

  They considered first one idea and another. The thick boards of the wooden floor and the iron bars on the windows made escape from the barracks impossible. Ailean’s only chance would come in the morning, when they went to the field to work.

  “We’re digging the rows on the far side now. If you’re on the end of the line, you’d be close to the woods. If we could distract the overseer, you could slip away into the brush, like Tòmas did,” Ruairidh said.

  They talked in whispers far into the night, planning the escape. When nothing was left to be said, they sat in silence as the day crept upon them, the early pre-dawn light revealing their strained faces to each other, neither able to speak.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Before first light, the women brought their morning meal. Ailean ate all of his breakfast except the piece of cornbread. He tucked the tail of his shirt into his triubhas, formed a small pouch of it and dropped the cornbread inside. As they left the barracks, Ruairidh slipped his piece of cornbread into Ailean’s hands as he walked past. Ailean gave him a look of gratitude and stuck the bread inside his shirt with the other piece.

  An orange sliver of sun showed over the trees to the east when the slaves reached the field they were plowing. James looked pointedly at Ailean for a moment, his eyes full of unspoken feelings, then directed Ailean and Ruairidh to dig the rows at the edge of the swamp. Ailean started digging the last row alongside the berm that bordered the field.

  He worked steadily until mid-morning when he caught sight of the water girl with her bucket and gourd dipper. James directed her to start on the side of the field where Ailean worked.

  Ailean’s hand trembled as he took the filled dipper. He drank the water and handed the dipper back to the girl, hoping his shaking hands wouldn’t reveal his nervousness to her. He wiped his mouth and resumed digging the shallow furrow.

  Ailean followed her progress from the corner of his eye, and when she reached the workers farthest from him, he glanced at the guard to be sure the man was engrossed in watching her. He moved the pieces of cornbread that rested in the bloused tail of his shirt to one side, to keep them from being crushed, eased over the berm into the thick vegetation beyond it, and dropped to his stomach on the ground, out of sight. He dragged the hoe with him. Ailean peered through the openings in the thicket to get his bearings and crawled away.

  The Highlanders were still singing, so he knew the guard had not missed him yet. Ailean crawled faster as he put more distance between himself and the field and thought it less likely he could be seen. He reached an area of open marsh that bordered the river when he heard shouts, and the singing stopped. Ailean got to his feet and, crouched low, moved as fast as he could through the tangle of vegetation at the margins of the marshland.

  He stopped for a few moments to catch his breath and listen for sounds of pursuit but heard nothing. When Ailean started moving again, he chose his route with more deliberation, still hurrying, but more aware of his surroundings, more attuned to possible dangers.

  ____________

  “What did you say?”

  “I said, the Highlander escaped from the field this morning,” Hadley repeated.

  “How can that be? You said armed guards watched them whenever they were in the fields.” Latharn’s jaws tightened, clamping his teeth together.

  “Mr. Campbell, I fail to understand why you are so upset. It is I who’s losing money with this escape, not you.”

  Latharn began pacing, thinking. He stopped abruptly. “Where could he run? Where could he hide?”

  Hadley chuckled. “Look around you. Have you looked at the heavily wooded lands that surround our plantations here in South Carolina? Where couldn’t he hide is a more apt question.”

  “The overseer, he should be punished. And the guards.”

  “Mr. Campbell. You misspeak yourself. You take liberties that are not yours. Whether or not my people are to be punished is at my discretion, not at your whim.”

  “Please, forgive me. I…I am not myself.”

  It was too late. Hadley’s distant but polite demeanor had evaporated and left a cold and appraising manner in its place. He didn’t reply.

  “Where do you think he could have gone?” Latharn asked.

  “I’m sure I don’t know.”

  “Is there anyone who might?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t help you. Now, if you will please excuse me, there are matters I must attend to.” Hadley opened the front door, walked inside and shut it.

  Latharn had no choice but to leave. He reluctantly turned and desce
nded the porch steps to the lawn. He had been close. So close. His misery and self-torture could have ended this day with MacLachlainn’s death. Instead, it was prolonged indefinitely.

  When he reached George Town, he returned to the inn where he was staying and went directly to a table in the public room. He ordered a glass of whisky and waited impatiently for the boy to bring it, drumming his fingers on the table. At last, the glass of liquid relief was set before him. He lifted it, took a sip and welcomed the fire that burned his throat and would burn away the memories and the suffering if he drank enough of it.

  He started on his second glass when two rough-looking men, one of whom had a prominent scar running the length of his face, came in and sat at a nearby table. Latharn enjoyed the illusion of privacy when he was the only customer, and he frowned at the unwelcome intrusion. He tried to ignore them at first, but the conversation between the two men caught his attention.

  “I’m getting tired of chasing slaves. I been thinking about maybe moving on up close to the mountains, finding me a piece of land somewhere, find me a wife and settle down,” said one of them.

  “Not me. That would be too much work,” said the man with the scar. “And I like the tracking, seeing can I find them, seeing can I outsmart them.”

  “You’re welcome to it. I’m tired of always sleeping on the ground, eating my own cooking. Now, if I had me my own place, I could sleep on a soft bed every night, have me a wife to cook me something good to eat. Now that would be living.”

  “Who you got in mind who would even have an old goat like you?” Jim Satterfield asked.

  “Now, Jim,” Davey Wilkerson complained. “You ain’t got no call to insult me. Besides, there’s a Indian girl up in the mountains, a pretty thing. I think she likes me. She smiled real nice at me once. And them Indian women, they’re hard workers.”

  Latharn arose from his chair and approached the table where the two men sat.

  “Please excuse me, gentlemen. I overheard your conversation unintentionally. Did you say that you pursue runaway slaves?”

  THIRTY-SIX

  Before sunset, Ailean reached a small hummock in the swamp. It was a bit higher and drier than the expanse of mud and water he’d slogged through since he left the plantation. He checked the area to be sure there were no snakes concealed in the tangle of weeds before he selected a spot and sat. He ate the two pieces of cornbread and lay on the damp ground but found he couldn’t fall asleep, even though he was physically tired.

  Ailean’s thoughts circled endlessly around the problem of arming himself for the coming confrontation with Latharn. He didn’t know where he could buy a firearm. Even if he found a place to buy one, he had no money. And if he could get a firearm, he didn’t know how to use one.

  The only weapon he knew how to use was a sword. But the problem of obtaining a sword was the same as with the firearm. He had no money to buy one and didn’t know where he could get one if he did have money.

  At last Ailean fell into a restless sleep.

  The cannons roared and thundered, belching smoke and pieces of metal that tore through men on both sides of him. He saw the chief fall from his horse, saw Da’s leg spout a red stream as he fell. The freezing sleet blowing into his face turned into a flooding, soaking rain that smothered and choked him…

  The sky flashed with a brilliance that turned his eyelids red, pulling him into wakefulness and away from his nightmare of Drummossie Moor, while thunder roared and echoed through the swamp. Ailean turned onto his side to escape the torrents of rain that poured into his face. He still trembled from the remnants of horror and heartbreak that snaked like tendrils of an evil miasma into his wakefulness from the reliving of the battle in his dream.

  Ailean crawled under an overhanging branch in a vain attempt to escape the deluge, wishing for the warmth of his féileadh-mòr as he huddled there, sopping wet, shivering from the aftermath of the dream as much as from the cold rain. His body jerked each time a deafening, reverbrating crash of thunder followed the intermittent flashes of lightning that illuminated the night sky. Finally, the storm passed, and Ailean fell into an exhausted sleep, tired, wet, cold and miserable.

  He awoke when a finger of sunlight penetrated the leafy canopy overhead and touched his closed eyes. Ailean stretched his stiff muscles, then lay still, listening to the sounds of birds and the whispers of the breeze as it passed through the treetops. There were no sounds of pursuit, no sounds of men making their way through the swamp toward him. He decided there was no immediate threat of capture and rose to continue his journey.

  Ailean had no idea where he was headed nor which way he should go, so he followed the river. Each time he reached the bounds of a plantation, he veered around it, keeping to the swamps and woods, returning to the river when he was past the cultivated acreage.

  He was famished by midday and knew he had to find food soon to keep up his strength. He scanned the area as he plodded along, looking for something he could eat. Toward evening, he found a gopher turtle. He pried open the shell using the hoe blade and killed the turtle.

  Ailean built a small fire. He placed the end of a dry stick on a piece of deadwood and twirled it between his palms, as he had watched Da do once when he kindled a need-fire. It took a long time, but finally he had a tiny, flickering flame which he fed with pieces of dead grass, leaves and sticks.

  He coaxed it into a fire big enough to cook the turtle. He had no means of cooking it into a soup, as James had done, so he speared the meat onto a stick, suspended over the fire and roasted it. It wasn’t tasty like the soup James made, but it assuaged his hunger.

  After he ate, he put out the fire and tried to conceal any sign of it to erase evidence of his passage. He moved on until the sun was low in the sky and the encroaching darkness made it hard to see any lurking dangers.

  The following day, he didn’t find a turtle, but he noticed an abundance of fish in the streams he crossed. As he walked through a heavily wooded tract, Ailean searched for a long, stout stick he could make into a lance to spear fish.

  It wouldn’t be as good as Da’s leisters, but he was sure he could get enough fish for a meal. He found a suitable stick, and that night when he stopped to sleep, he scraped one end of it with the hoe blade to shape it into a crude point.

  Ailean awakened the next morning while the sky was gray, before the sun lifted itself over the eastern horizon. There was not yet enough light to make travel through the swamp safe. While he waited for full daylight, he worked on honing the point of his stick. By the time the sun had fully risen, it was sharp enough to use.

  He picked up the hoe and lance and continued his trek, still following the river. At midday, he encountered a stream and squatted beside it, looking for fish. He speared two small fish and a larger one, broke a forked branch from a sapling and strung the fish on it. He slung them over his shoulder, crossed the stream and continued on his way, his supper assured.

  During the eighth day of travel, Ailean noticed a subtle change in the land. The flat swampland fell behind him as he entered a region of gently rolling hills interspersed with swamps. The hills gradually grew steeper day by day, and his spirits rose with the rise in elevation of the land. He welcomed the wooded hills and glens like a long-absent friend, and he began to feel at home.

  Or would have felt at home if another person accompanied him. Ailean had hardly ever been alone in his life except for the short periods when he had ascended the mountaintop for time apart, time to contemplate questions or problems that plagued him.

  Now, he’d not seen another human being in…how many days had it been? Ailean missed Ruairidh and the other men from his homeland. He missed James. He missed companionship and the sound of voices. His loneliness became an almost physical pain.

  His pace slowed as the terrain became steeper and rougher. Tall trees towered over him and made him feel small and inconsequential as he walked beneath their leafy branches. As Ailean traveled farther through this land of steep hills and clear,
tumbling streams, the ache in his heart grew sharper.

  One afternoon, he pushed his way through a tangle of vines and briars and came upon a trail which wound around the side of a hill and dropped into a small glen between the hills. He followed it cautiously, alert for every sound, every sign that might announce danger. When night descended upon the land, he moved away from the trail to sleep in a thicket, but retraced his steps back to it the next morning.

  Ailean continued following the path each day.

  One morning, he followed as it climbed to the top of a hill. On the right side of the path, the hill rose so steeply that he could reach out and touch the bank at shoulder level, and to the left, the earth dropped away, leaving the path clinging precariously to the side of the hill. The trees which grew along the sharp descent raised their tops, thick with new leaves, so close some of them brushed against him. Ailean felt as though he was walking on a lane that passed through the treetops themselves.

  At one place, small stones had rolled down from an outcrop of rocks above, and they made the passage treacherous. Ailean picked his way along slowly, looking for firm footing. One misstep on a loose rock and he could find himself falling down the steep incline.

  Ailean paused and glanced up to see where the path led. He stood staring for a moment. There was an open space between the branches of the trees ahead where the trail curved abruptly to the right, and through that openness, he caught a glimpse of a panorama of wooded peaks and valleys spread below. He was near the top of a mountain. There were mountains in this land, as James had said, and he’d found them. Ailean eased along the path until he reached the spot where he could see between the trees.

  He lowered himself to his knees and swung his legs over the edge of precipice, sitting on the narrow path, leaning back on the bank behind him. He looked out over the land stretched before him and saw ridges of blue mountains, one behind the other, reaching far into the distance, so far that the succeeding ridges grew paler and almost faded into the white edge of the sky at the horizon. Ailean had found the mountains.