Highland Justice

by Larry Stuart

  The legal requirements of life and death, like taxes, never relented. The proving of Helen’s will had been carried out by the church, and her house, plus the old cabin on the hillside, had been left to Cameron. This document, along with the Certificate of Death, needed to be transferred to the Sheriff’s court in Elgin, where they would be legally notarised. So all he had left to do now was send them off.

  That evening, Cameron crept up the dark alley between the baker’s and Mr Jones’s general store. On reaching the end, he tapped on the frail-looking door situated between the darkened windows of the abandoned harness maker’s. The warped door squeaked as it began to open, but only did so far enough to allow the weathered face of Hamish Munro to peer out from the darkened interior.

  ‘Quick…go back there,’ Hamish whispered, moving aside the filthy blanket hanging behind the doorway and pointing towards another door at the back of the dimly lit room.

  It would have been nearly impossible to find a group of rougher looking characters, thought Cameron, when his eyes grew accustomed to the dull interior. Life had not been easy for any of the seven men, quietly sitting at the back of the room on makeshift seats made from rough-hewn planks supported by empty, old crates.

  ‘Who be this, Hamish?’ grunted one of the men, hunched over and almost invisible in the darkest corner of the room.

  ‘Aye, what’re ye doin’ mon…lettin’ him in here?’ murmured another.

  ‘Dinna make a palaver, Ian…’tis Morris Stewart’s lad…Cameron,’ replied Dougal.

  ‘Oh…aye…an what he be doin’ here?’

  Dougal then proceeded to recite the same story he’d given Cameron the night before. And when he’d finished, a nodding of heads all around confirmed it was a tale with which they were all too familiar, as many of their friends and relatives had come close to suffering the same fate.

  ‘Aye, that be that bastard, Campbell,’ Hamish pronounced. ‘Ah remember him weel from ma days in the Dragoons. He were our company sniper… an it were indecent how much he liked that job.’

  The following morning, light snow was falling; and the high-pitched grinding of metal-on-metal, accompanied by the jerky movements of the train, bore witness to the difficulty the loco was experiencing getting any traction on the slippery rails. Eventually, as the sand released by the driver onto the tracks began to take effect, the movement of the train became more regular and its speed increased.

  The fingertips on Cameron’s right hand slowly rubbed his forehead, while the backs of the fingers on his other hand made circular motions on the frosted window beside him, gradually widening the aperture through which he could monitor their progress.

  The clandestine meeting the night before had certainly given him cause to re-evaluate his attitude towards the state of affairs in the Highlands. All those who had spoken had a grievance, to some degree or another, but none had suffered the outrage of having one of their own hunted and shot down like an animal. He was now convinced Malcolm Campbell had murdered his father, and had made up his mind he would not allow that act to go unanswered.

  As time went by, Cameron’s thoughts kept returning to the same seemingly insoluble problem – how he could make Campbell’s death look like an accident? He had no guns, so a shooting accident was out of the question...and besides, that would look suspicious to say the least.

  The shrill blast of the engine’s whistle rebounding off the surrounding hillsides nudged Cameron from his felonious musings. And he would never know why his eyes were drawn to his little window on the world at exactly that moment. But as they were, a blurred shape, standing proud against the snowy background, passed before him.

  The indistinct shape was in fact the memorial cross that had been erected by the railway in memory of his best friend Duncan and the seven other men. For a moment he closed his eyes, as his mind drifted back to that hellish day, and he recalled the noise and destruction and death. But no sooner had he recovered from those doleful memories than, like the sun bursting forth from behind clouds on a rainy day, the solution to his problem was illuminated; and his face lit up with a smile.

  CHAPTER NINE

  For weeks, Cameron had been barely communicative, and even now he just sat in front of the hearth, eyes glazed, staring into the flickering flames. Finally, Mary had had enough.

  ‘Are we no gonny talk again, Cameron? I know we’ve had a few bad months, but this is becomin’ unbearable. Christmas and New Year are no far away, so can we please try and get our lives movin’ ahead again? Maybe we could invite Annie and Rob over for Christmas? She and I both be off this year, and I expect Rob will be as well.’

  In his mind, Cameron knew his plan was nearly complete. Of course he had doubts. He wasn’t born to be a killer. Far from it. His mother had been a gentle person and, although his father broke the law, as far as Cameron was aware, he had never resorted to violence against other people. And as for Mary, well, she would be horrified if she discovered what he was contemplating.

  Education had taught him the folly of not learning from the past. But this was not about bye-gone days. This was about justice, and maybe even about sending a small message to the arrogant few who continued to perpetuate hardship against the masses.

  ‘You’re right, Mary. I’m sorry ’bout the way I’ve been behavin’. So tomorrow I’ll drop in at the hotel on ma way back from work and find out about this year’s Hogmanay party. Maybe Rob and Annie would like to go as well?’

  Christmas and New Year had now come and gone. Cameron sat in his office, his mind mulling over the last few weeks. They did have quite a good time at Christmas, even though the early season snow had been replaced by a muddy hotchpotch, curtailing any ideas they might have entertained of enjoying any winter fun. The Hogmanay party had been good fun, although by the end of the evening, Cameron got the distinct impression that Rob and Annie’s friendship would remain just that.

  The sale of Helen’s house was speeding ahead. It turned out that Mrs Murray’s son was the interested party and was keen to move in as soon as possible. Of course, this now suited Cameron, as the sooner he divested himself of any interest in the Dufftown area, the sooner, he hoped, the Stewarts would begin to fade from the minds of the local inhabitants. Plus, the seventy-five pounds and fifteen shillings that he would be receiving from the sale would certainly come in handy when he and Mary began their new life.

  Cameron’s attention returned to the present as his office door suddenly flew open, accompanied by a burst of cold air.

  ‘Excuse me, Mr Stewart. Sorry to bother ye.’

  Standing in the open doorway, nervously clasping his hands, was the young office boy from the station’s second floor.

  ‘Do come in…and hurry up an close that door before I lose what little heat there is!’

  ‘Sorry, Sir... Mr Mathieson wud like to see ye in his office… straight away.’

  ‘All right, John…Oh, and I dinna mean to sound so harsh. I just have a lot on ma mind right now.’

  Cameron stood up, donning his coat and following the young lad down the stairs; and as they crossed the yard, a gust of freezing wind ruffled Cameron’s hair and turned his ears pink, while in the distance the clouds once again began to pile up against the craggy hilltops.

  This fits in rather nicely with my plans, thought Cameron, as he sat in the front carriage of the evening train to Aberdeen. Apparently, some major complication with the building of the new line to Inverness had arisen, and an emergency meeting had been called at head office. Mr Mathieson hadn’t yet received any details, but had just said it was ‘imperative’ he get there as soon as possible.

  The carriage swayed as the gusty wind – now accompanied by swirling snow – buffeted the train. Thank goodness he’d had time to go home, leave Mary a note, and get some warm clothes, he mused. Because the world outside his window was now beginning to disappear as the blizzard took hold.

  For the next 24 hours the wind found new purpose. It blew from the north, bringing with it arc
tic air laden full of snow. Conifer branches sagged under the weight of their white covering, while at the same time, rocks and shrubs became giant pillows scattered on a snowy bed.

  In the city, the snow was only a momentary nuisance. Aberdeen was on the coast, its temperature moderated by the sea, so soon after the blizzard had ended, the snow on the streets melted away, to be replaced by muddied puddles scattered amongst a cocktail of filth.

  The following day’s meeting finished by noon; the dire emergency averted. As Cameron had suspected, it was not a catastrophe, merely a staffing issue. The solution to the problem was simple. He now added “surveyor’s assistant” to his ever- increasing portfolio; and although the directors did not immediately agree to his request for an increase in his salary, they did promise to consider it ‘in due course’. ‘Oh I’m sure,’ he mumbled, as he strolled down the hallway at the conclusion of the meeting, sporting a cynical grin on his face.

  By mid-afternoon, Cameron found himself wandering through the centre of the city with plenty of time to spare. The main line to Huntly was blocked by snow, and according to the Company was unlikely to re-open before the following day.

  Aberdeen’s main street was bustling. Whips cracked as drivers fought to control their steeds, and the cries of street vendors filled the air. The mixed aroma of spices, roasting chestnuts and maturing manure confused the senses; while at the same time one’s eyes were drawn to the gaily-coloured posters hung in most windows, proclaiming the superiority of that store’s merchandise. Men’s outfitters displayed the latest gentlemen’s apparel on manikins in their windows, whilst in their entrances stood liveried doormen, expediting access to the “right type” of client. But, as might be expected, Cameron’s eyes were lured to the beautifully attired ladies, stepping gingerly from their carriages on to the wooden walkways, before briskly entering the brightly decorated milliners and dressmakers.

  Nearing the far end of the street, noticeable changes began to take place. The premises which Cameron now passed became tired-looking and smaller. While at the same time, the fragrance inveigling its way into his nose became one of rotting fish and seaweed. However, colourful posters did still drape the windows, but this time displayed enormous ships beckoning passengers to the New World.

  Thanks to the crews spending all night clearing the line, Cameron finally boarded a train for home the following morning.

  ‘Poor Rob,’ he mused as he stared out the carriage’s windows at the pristine, snow-covered scenery. It would have been he and his crew that had spent the last thirty-six hours shovelling snow in these freezing temperatures. It was at times like this he felt quite smug. If only the board of directors had listened. Twice in the last year, he had suggested purchasing one of the new American snow-blades. But, both times he’d been rebuffed; and he was now certain that had they done so, they could have easily avoided this major shut-down, which no doubt cost the railway more than the price of one or two of the ploughs.

  Reaching into the inside pocket of his overcoat, he extracted today’s “Aberdeen Mail”, purchased from the lad on the station platform while he was hurrying to catch the train.

  Cameron almost gasped, as the enormity of what appeared on the front page jolted him to his boots.

  * * *

  SEVEN MEN ARRESTED AT SECRET MEETING!

  * * *

  According to the article, Dougal, Hamish, Ian and four others had been rounded up by the police at Hamish’s old workplace. Someone had tipped off the constabulary, and once they had marshalled sufficient extra constables, they had surrounded the place and struck. The story went on to say that, according to an unnamed official in the Procurator’s office, all the men could expect lengthy jail terms, especially as the English Government did not take kindly to any acts of subversion.

  ‘My God,’ Cameron murmured to himself. ‘That could have been me. In fact, it would have been me if I hadn’t rushed off to Aberdeen.’

  The following day, the snow began to thaw in earnest, and by the weekend, rain had washed away all signs of winter. Cameron was more than happy with this turn of events, as it now allowed him to pursue his new part-time job as assistant to Mr William Reid, the company surveyor. A position he had talked the directors into giving to him.

  The surveying of the new line to Inverness had advanced to near Brodie Castle – halfway between Forres and Nairn – before Mr Reid and his assistant had had a falling out. So it was to Forres that Cameron proceeded on Monday morning to take up his new post.

  As he arrived in the town, he was amazed by the amount of activity taking place in what had previously been just a small village in the county of Moray. The new station was almost finished, while at the same time a new mill for textiles was well on its way to being completed. The town’s first ever hotel was at the planning stage, and the Parish Church was in the process of being rebuilt – for the second time.

  Cameron could now truly see what effect the coming of a railway had to a town’s growth and prosperity; and he began to realise how fortunes were made in property and industry by those with the wherewithal to make the investment. Of course, what he didn’t as yet appreciate was that the wherewithal was useless without timely inside knowledge of the impending route of the railway.

  All too soon, he became aware that the job of surveying was not quite as simple as just sticking some stakes in the ground in as straight a line as possible. Generally speaking, there was no road or path to follow, so a lot of time was spent hacking their way through forests and dense underbrush.

  Each night as he went to bed, it was William Reid’s monotonous litany that finally lulled him off to sleep: ‘Gradient and Radius…Gradient and Radius. If you don’t get this right, you’ll either have a nasty accident or a permanently unprofitable route. Speed is of the essence. But speed with safety is critical’.

  At the end of his first week, Cameron arrived home scratched in places he didn’t want to think about, and exhausted from scrambling up and down hills, wading through streams and clambering over fallen trees.

  The line crawled forward.

  Apart from deep snow, the only hold-ups occurred in the springtime, when, as he was sadly aware, water-logged ground could create mudslides. Occasionally, their weekly progress was notable. But more often than not, a mile or two was the norm. The track had to be laid around hills – when the gradient would be too steep to climb over – and rivers and streams had to be spanned. Specialist bridging crews were left behind to complete the water crossings, while the men laying track were just moved to the other bank to continue on from there. Teams of horses strained, with heavily re-enforced harnesses attached to deep iron ploughs, to carve out track beds from the hillsides. But even they were no match for the almost impregnable veins of granite, which nature had seen fit to use as a foundation for some of the higher slopes. This was the time of greatest danger, because this was the time when the blasters were summoned.

  ‘In the old days, we used black powder,’ the chief surveyor said to Cameron one day as the blasting team’s wagon neared. ‘But a few years back, some Swedish guy called Alfred Nobel came up with this new stuff he called Nobel’s Blasting Powder, which they now call dynamite.’ Just then, the blaster’s wagon drew to a halt alongside the two surveyors. ‘How goes it, Fergus? Here…chuck us one of them wee sticks, will ye?’

  ‘What the hell…!’ exclaimed Cameron, turning to run as the man in the wagon reached into a wooden crate behind him, picked up one of the eight inch long sticks, and literally threw it to Mr Reid.

  Fergus grinned, and then climbed down from the wagon and turned towards Cameron.

  ‘Tis nae a problem, Mr Stewart. That be one of the great things about them sticks.

  They is pretty well harmless…till ye light the fuse. An then ’tis only a matter of makin’ sure ye have a long enough fuse.’

  ‘I can no believe you can just haul them things around in a wooden box, bouncin’ around in the back of the wagon like that,’ said Cameron.


  ‘Oh, aye. Mind ye ’tis sure different to bygone days. Only problem now is some people think the whole process is safe…an can be done by just anyone.’

  ‘Well, if you no mind…for the next few days I’d like to watch how an expert like yourself uses these things. I think it might be good for me to learn somethin’ about ’em…especially as I’m havin’ to store ’em at the depot in Huntly.’

  Over the last two years, Mary and Annie had become the closest of friends, and would quite often get together when Cameron was away. Annie was one of life’s characters. Her permanently curly auburn hair, set on top of her round freckled face, gave her a whimsical appearance. But her pale-blue eyes, set far apart, and her large, firm breasts, added something exotic to her appeal. In the evenings, when the two of them got together, they talked about almost everything. Annie was quite capable of revealing all the “nasty details” of her love life, but became quite frustrated when Mary drew the line on what she considered to be her private life, she being all too aware that her friend sometimes blurted out certain intimate details to others when she’d had a few too many drinks.