by CL Skelton
At last the great day arrived. The men had slept well; after about nine weeks of sea travel in the crowded conditions on board the Himalaya, a seat in the train was a luxury. When they arrived in Inverness, they were greeted by the provost and the pipes of the town. They were marched to the Town House and there given a huge breakfast of porridge and bacon and eggs, as much as any of them could eat, and after a mercifully short speech of welcome from the provost, they set out on the nine-mile march to Beauly.
In the hills around Strathglass, there were very mixed feelings among the crofting community and the estate workers. Many of them who had waved and cheered goodbye as their men had marched away five years ago would have no man to welcome home. There were other worries, too. Mothers spoke firmly to their daughters of the dangers of associating with soldiers who had just returned from overseas. Men went to great lengths to conceal the fact that they had ‘caught a packet,’ and the older women were aware that in more than a few of the men returning, there would be lurking the dread syphilis which they had brought home from the brothels of the East, and for which there was no known cure. Worse, it might so easily be transmitted to the children who would be conceived in the next few months.
News had been hard to come by in Strathglass. Certainly the long casualty lists from Taku had been published in the Inverness Courier and many names were listed as ‘died on active service’ ‒ these last being the victims of disease and accidents, greater scourges to the fighting man than the risks of battle. But there was little known of the happenings of the last year, so most of the families of the men waited and prayed for that moment of physical reunion, hoping desperately that it might come to be.
The state of the regiment was known mainly through rumour and invention. Quite a few of the homecomers would be due for discharge. Some would take it, while others would sign on for a further six years. All the married men would be given leave almost as soon as they had arrived in Beauly, and in little over nine months from now, there would be a new crop of children in the glen.
Today was the day of the parade. The women and the old men would line the High Street from the town boundary, where there was already work starting on the railway, down the little slope, past the shops, all whitewashed or neat sandstone with grey slate roofs, and on to the red-brick hotel, the largest building in Beauly, and finally into the village square. There, surrounded by the principal shops ‒ the apothecary’s, the tobacconist, the butcher’s, the hardware and farm-implement store ‒ and the old priory itself all strewn with bunting, the regiment would march to be greeted by the town fathers. The streets would be crowded, the children pushed to the front, where they could have a better view and cheer and wave flags as the soldiers marched by. The people, the young especially, would dance along the sides of the column, stealing kisses and thrusting little gifts of sweetmeats or flowers into the hands of the returning warriors. Those of them who had loved ones would be scanning the faces anxiously as each filed past, praying that they would find the beloved and familiar face, and until they did, fearing that something might have happened that had not yet been reported.
At Culbrech House, Lady Maclaren was fussing. That night she was to be hostess to the officers of the 148th. Of the twenty-four who had left, only fourteen would return. But she was an army wife and accepted these things, especially when they did not touch her personally. For her, there was no tragedy. She knew that both of her men were safe. She had received a letter from her son only that morning which told her that all was well.
Lady Maclaren would not go into Beauly to see the march. It would not do for the colonel’s wife to wave a paper flag and cheer, and she could not wait for them at the barracks where her presence would only serve to delay their arrival at the house. No, it was better that she stayed at home and waited for her men to arrive. Dinner would be at eight, and after dinner there would be all the stories to listen to.
Of course, they would stay the night in barracks, but hopefully her husband and her son would be able to stay on for a few days. Especially she hoped that Andrew would be given leave immediately, for it was with that in mind that she had again invited the Worthings to Culbrech. It really was high time that the boy started thinking seriously about marriage, and Emma was, to Lady Maclaren, a most suitable match in many ways. For one thing, he would not have to break her in to army life; she had known no other. Yes, thought her ladyship, eminently suitable. Not that she expected them to fall in love with each other. As far as that was concerned, Andrew would undoubtedly have his mistresses, and hopefully Emma would be kept too busy bearing children to worry about her own desires in that direction. Ladies were born to breed and keep house; men had mistresses for their pleasure, but discreetly, and on the side.
At Cluny Cottage, Maggie Buchannan tapped on the planked door which led to the sitting room.
‘Come in.’
Maud was seated in a polished oak wheel-backed chair by an octagonal bamboo table covered with a blue velvet tasselled cloth. She was intent on her embroidery, a pinafore for her small daughter. The room faced south, and the morning sun which had broken through after the threat of rain had just begun to filter through the bow window, picking out the heavy gilt framed oil painting of Highland cattle standing eternally by a burn. The soft golden tints of Maud’s hair as she sat in the bow of the window were framed against the neat little front garden with its early roses still wearing their diamond drops of early-morning dew.
Maud had expressly not been invited to Culbrech House and the celebratory dinner, nor had she expected to be. She had not been there for a long time, and in fact the only member of the family whom she had seen to talk to since she had moved to Cluny had been Jean. Jean had paid her several visits and spent most of the time talking to her about God and how they, herself and Maud, would find refuge and solace in Him ‒ refuge from a masculine world and solace for the hurt that they had both suffered at the hands of the opposite sex. Maud had borne Jean’s well-intentioned ramblings with patience, knowing that the girl wanted to be her friend. But she had always been glad to see her go. There was no animosity between Maud and Lady Maclaren, but after she had left Culbrech, their relationship had been allowed to atrophy until now it was as if it had never existed. If they should chance to meet, they would smile and murmur a greeting to each other, but they were not friends, only acquaintances. The impossible friendship had sadly died an inevitable death on the day that Lady Maclaren had decided that Maud represented a threat to her son.
Maud looked up as Maggie entered the room.
‘What is it, Maggie?’
‘Please, Miss Maud, are you going to Beauly today? To see the regiment, I mean?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Maud. ‘I’ve thought about it, but I can’t really make up my mind. Do you want to go?’
‘Oh, yes, miss,’ replied Maggie. ‘Ma mannie’s coming home.’
‘What about your children?’ asked Maud.
‘They’ll be fine wi’ their gran’,’ said Maggie.
‘I suppose you’ll want some time off to be with your husband when he arrives?’
‘Aye, miss, I would. Would that be all right?’
‘Of course.’
‘We’d better wait to find out when he’s getting his leave,’ said Maggie, and Maud smiled agreement. ‘Are you going into Beauly, miss?’
‘I don’t know,’ replied Maud.
‘You could take the bairn, she’d like it fine, and she’s old enough now. Och, miss, she’d love the flags and the colour and the pipes, and all the cheering and the shouting. The whole town’ll be there.’
And Andrew and Willie, thought Maud. She would like to see them again. In her mind, and in the solitude of the life she had created for herself, she had confused images of both of them. It was mostly Willie that she thought of. This was natural, she supposed, since it was Willie who had kept writing to her. His letters had never been long, and had never been very informative. Just a few lines telling her that he was all right, Mast
er Andrew was all right, and he hoped that she was all right. She had written little notes in reply, assuring Willie that she too was all right, and that everybody else in the glen was all right. The letters had stopped about three months ago, but then she knew that they were on their way home, and that she would soon be seeing him again. She came to a decision. After all, they had come across twelve thousand miles of ocean, and here she was wondering whether or not she should travel the five miles into Beauly to greet them on their homecoming. Yes, she would go, and she would take Naomi with her, and she would give Naomi a little flag to wave while she cheered as she watched the soldiers march by.
For herself, she did not really mind whether or not she spoke to them. Willie knew where to find her. And if Andrew wanted to, it would not be difficult for him to find out where she was. So it was arranged that they would have an early lunch, then take the gig, Maggie driving with her firm, well-practised hands, and drive into Beauly ‒ Maud and Maggie and Naomi.
‘Och, I’m so glad,’ said Maggie. ‘Thank you, miss.’
‘A moment, Maggie.’ Maud was rummaging about in her work basket. ‘Ah, yes, here it is. I thought I had it. Take this and tie it around your bonnet.’ She handed Maggie a wide piece of scarlet velvet ribbon.
‘Thank you, miss,’ said Maggie, delighted. ‘But if you dinna mind, I’ll make a bow of it for ma dress. For it is ma mutch I shall be wearing on ma heed.’
‘Battalion, atten-shun!’ The newly appointed Regimental Sergeant Major William Bruce gazed critically at the men drawn up by half-companies in columns of four.
There were just over four hundred of them left out of the thousand who had left Scotland five years before. But they were still the 148th, and they bore themselves proudly as Highlanders should. They stood on the outskirts of Beauly preparing to march into the town which was to be their home.
‘Parade will fix bayonets. Parade fi-i-ix bayonets! Keep your heads up there. Don’t let me catch you looking down. Sloooop arms!’
The rifles clattered in unison as the battalion came to the slope.
‘Now you horrible lot!’ roared Willie. ‘Try and get this into your thick skulls. Oor toon has made us their regiment. Youse are going to be allowed to march through Beauly with bayonets fixed, colours flying, and band playing. There are no other sodjers in the whole British army who can dae that. So ye’ll remember the honour that has been done tae ye and for once in your scruffy, clarty lives, ye’ll be smart, ye’ll be respectful, and ye’ll be proud o’ the uniform that yees are wearing.’
Willie walked over to Andrew, who had just put up the crown of a major. He had been appointed adjutant just the day before, Chisholm having taken over B Company.
‘Hundred and forty-eighth present and correct, sir.’
Andrew returned Willie’s salute. ‘Fall in the officers,’ he called, and then marched over to where his father was standing. He came to attention and saluted.
‘Yes, Andrew, what’s left of them.’
‘Beg pardon, sir?’ Andrew did not understand his father’s tone.
‘It is a long time since someone first stood before me and told me that the 148th were present and correct.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Andrew, still bemused.
‘Thank you, Andrew,’ said the colonel.
Andrew raised his eyebrows slightly. There was a gentleness in his father’s voice that he was not accustomed to hearing. He marched back to his place.
The colonel looked down the ranks of the regiment. There were under half of them left, only half of those men who had sailed from Scotland all those years ago. The rest would never be seen again. Of those who remained, possibly up to forty per cent would claim their discharge, and that would bring his strength down to one and a half companies. But they were a fine one and a half companies, blooded under fire, bonded together as only fighting men can be, comrades, brothers-in-arms. The nucleus was still there, and from it the regiment would blossom as from a single seed, back to its full power and strength.
They were a brave sight, their kilts, the multicolour of the tartan, the diced tops of their stockings over snow-white spats, boots gleaming, bayonets glinting in the sun, and the breeze gentling their feather bonnets, making them look like living things. And now, all that was left, this pathetic remnant, were returning home; these who had been spared from the battles they had fought and the tropical diseases which had accomplished much more than any human enemy they had encountered. They were going on leave. And in the bars and around the peat fires throughout the Highlands, there would be much talk, and tales would be told of great deeds. Not many of them would be true, but it would not matter. They would be soldiers’ tales. Soldiers who had come home from the wars. Then the colonel thought of those other hearths, those desolate hearths which would never see their men again. He would do whatever he could about that, to soften the agony, to assuage the loneliness.
Tonight he was going to announce his retirement. Then he would be able to devote more time and solace to those who had suffered the loss of their men. It was a good thing to have their new headquarters here at Beauly. The men would be near to their homes, and they would be able to be released to go and help with the harvest, and where they could inspire fresh young blood to take the Queen’s shilling.
For today, though, there was this parade. They were to show themselves to their town and to their womenfolk, who had waited so long for this moment.
Today he would not ride his charger, he would march at the head of his men. He wanted them to feel that he was their brother, that he was proud to be numbered in their company, and in the company of those who would not return but whose spirits would undoubtedly be at their side at this moment. It was the last time and he wanted them to know that he was one of them. He took his place at the head of the column and squared his shoulders.
‘Pipe-major!’ he called, and as the pipes played the first plaintive notes of the regimental march, he continued, ‘Battalion will advance in columns of four. By the right quick march.’
They had assembled only a couple of hundred yards from the boundary of the town. Before them lay the earthworks of the new railway line which they would have to cross before entering High Street, which would lead them down the last quarter of a mile to the market square. In the street and square, they would be greeted by a mass of colour, of silks and prints and taffetas, of kilts and tweeds and homespun dresses, of the good and the bad, of the whole population who had turned out to greet them. Even Jimmy Henderson would be there.
Nobody knew how old Jimmy was. He might have been anything between forty and seventy. He never washed and seemed always to have a four days’ growth of black beard on his craggy grey face. Invariably, in the pocket of his tattered tweed jacket, there would be the ubiquitous half-bottle. From somewhere Jimmy had found a stick and he was marching up and down in front of the crowd, swaying and shouting. As he passed them, matrons tucked their small children behind their skirts, men turned and looked the other way for fear that Jimmy would come to them and demand that they take a dram from him. For Jimmy was drunk. Not that that was anything strange, for Jimmy was always drunk.
‘Huzza for the 148th!’ he called, and promptly sat down in the middle of the road, where after a moment, he lay back and fell asleep, snoring violently. Jimmy had no home. Winter and summer alike, he slept in hedgerows or empty barns, and worked at anything that was going whenever he ran out of whisky. He was a good worker, when he was sober, and no one disliked Jimmy, but no one sought his company.
Two men among the crowd lining the street came out into the middle of the road, picked Jimmy up, snores and all, and deposited him gently in a shop doorway. There they knew he would sleep it off, and upon waking, reach for his half-bottle and wonder what the hell had happened to the procession.
While this was happening, the battalion had entered High Street and were approaching the square, where they formed up on three sides of the rostrum. Lord MacDonald spoke briefly of their bravery, and how the
y were all grateful to see their return. And then the minister spoke at length of the devils which might beset the town if they did not behave themselves. Not that he said it in so many words; it was more subtle: ‘I know fine that these brave lads will respect the honour of their new home. They will not get drunk! They will observe the Sabbath, and only the married men will have any contact with the women of the town, or all of them will face the wrath of the Lord.’
They listened to the haranguing with patience, because they had to. And then Colonel Maclaren thanked everybody and it was all over. Then they marched off again, back the way they had come, to enter their new barracks.
This time as they marched down the High Street, it was different. Many, mostly women, broke through and ran alongside the file where their loved one marched, pressing little gifts and bunches of flowers into the men’s hands.