by CL Skelton
When he broke the silence, Captain Brown said to Willie, ‘Would you consider then that a man who failed to carry out what was, however unpleasant, a very simple duty, was lacking in courage?’
Willie glared at him. ‘Nothing of the sort. Besides,’ he muttered, ‘it’s nae for me to say.’
‘Thank you, Brigadier,’ said the prosecutor, and sat down.
The President glanced across at Ian. ‘Have you any further questions?’ he asked.
Ian wished that he had, but he could not think of any. ‘No, sir,’ he replied. ‘No further questions.’
The President turned to Willie. ‘Brigadier Bruce,’ he said, ‘I am still not quite sure what the defence’s line is going to be. But I think there is one question which has not been asked which should have been. With the knowledge which you possess today, do you feel that you were wrong in not accepting Captain Bruce’s resignation in 1883? Or do you feel that you acted correctly at the time?’
Willie looked hard at his son. Again he got no response. When he spoke, his voice was heavy with emotion. ‘Aye,’ he said, ‘I should ha’ taken it. I should ha’ made the decision a lot earlier. Donald should never have been a soldier. I am every bit as responsible for him being where he is today as he is himsel’.’
‘Thank you, Brigadier,’ said the President. ‘That will be all, sir.’
The President looked at the clock on the wall facing him. ‘Captain Maclaren,’ he said, ‘have you any idea how much longer it will take you to present your case?’
‘Not really, sir,’ replied Ian. ‘At least a couple of hours, possibly longer.’
‘In that case,’ said the President, ‘I think we will adjourn and resume here tomorrow morning at ten o’clock.’ There was a pause as they gathered their papers together and then, in muted conversation, the President and the members of the court left the room. As soon as they had gone, an orderly came up to Ian and handed him a slip of paper. It was from Willie Bruce, inviting him to dine with him that night at the George Hotel.
Donald’s escort was hanging around, waiting to take him off to his room.
‘I shall not be able to see you tonight, Donald,’ said Ian. ‘I’ll come in at half past eight in the morning so we can have a chat before they start.’
Donald did not reply. He nodded briefly and then went to the officer who was waiting for him and left the court.
Ian looked after him as he left. He had not done very well, but what the blazes could he do? Here was a man who had already decided that the verdict would go against him. He moved like an automaton. The real trouble was that he did not care. Hell, tomorrow, perhaps, he might do better. Feeling that he had let Donald down by even offering to act for him, Ian started to gather up his notes.
While he was at this, Captain Brown came over to him.
‘You’ll have to do better than this, you know,’ he said not unkindly.
‘Well ‒’ Ian stopped. Dare he ask the other man’s advice? No, he could not.
‘Look, Maclaren,’ said Brown, ‘I’m not the enemy. I’m not here to see your fellow convicted. My job is just to present the facts.’ He smiled. ‘I know you’re new and this is a damnable case. I’ll give you as much leeway as I dare. Good luck.’
Captain Brown went out and Ian stood looking after him feeling sick in the pit of his stomach.
Chapter Ten
After the arrest of his son, Willie Bruce had caught the next train north. He was determined to get to Strathglass as soon as possible. He did not even wait to greet Gordon from the boat and left behind a very angry Naomi to make the explanations. Throughout the journey he sat gazing sightlessly out of the window of his compartment. He was aware of nothing of the countryside through which he passed, the rolling broad acres of Yorkshire, the smut and grime of Newcastle and industrial Tyneside. The magnificence of the coastline around North Berwick, where the train runs in a great sweeping curve along the sea wall, meant nothing to him. Not even when he got into the Highlands and the train struggled through the passes in the Cairngorm mountains did his thoughts allow him to see the beauty of the land that was his. He had only one thought in his mind. He had to get to Maud. He had to tell her to her face, before she heard the news from any other source. He knew that the interview would be painful and that he would have to face her wrath; but he hoped and he prayed that she would understand that he could have done no other thing.
He would have had to wait for three hours at Inverness for the next train to Beauly, and he was too impatient for that. He hired a cab which took him as far as the Maclaren barracks where he borrowed a charger and galloped across country to Cluny Cottage.
His home looked so beautiful and peaceful in the late August sunshine. The rose garden was a mass of colour, the lawn inside the little wicket gate neat and well tended, and very, very green. Willie saw none of this. He could think only of the woman inside the house, and what he was about to tell her. They had reached middle age together after a turbulent and sometimes heartbreaking early marriage. For many years now, though, they had carried on an almost idyllic life together, and Willie was afraid, desperately afraid, that he was about to shatter all of that.
He arrived at Cluny Cottage just twenty-four hours after he had walked into Naomi’s sitting room. He went in through the front door, bending his head as he had done ever since the low lintel had knocked his feather bonnet off many years ago. Maud Bruce was astonished at the sight of her husband whom she had not expected to see for at least another week.
‘What has happened?’ she asked, for it was easy to tell from the expression on his face that something was radically wrong. ‘It’s not Gordon. Don’t tell me that something ‒’
‘No, lassie, it’s no Gordon. Maud, I want you to sit down. I have something verra serious to tell you. Please, lass, sit down.’
Slowly she did as she was bid. She knew from the turn down of his lips that whatever it was, it was not going to be pleasant listening.
Willie had not even paused to remove his greatcoat. He stood there with his back to the fire facing her as she waited.
‘It’s Donald,’ he said.
‘Donald?’ There was hope in her voice and for a fleeting moment there was happiness in her eyes.
Willie could hardly bear it. Slowly he shook his head and watched her expression change again.
‘You’ve found him?’ she asked nervously. ‘Is he ‒ no, don’t tell me, he’s ‒ he’s dead. Willie, what is it about Donald?’
‘Maud, me wee love, he’s no dead. He’s in the best o’ health.’
Again the hope transformed her face. ‘Then what can possibly be wrong?’
‘He’s under arrest.’
‘Arrest? What for? What has he done? Who arrested him? Willie, if it’s the army, you can fix it, can’t you?’ She looked up at him. ‘Well, can’t you?’
‘I arrested him, Maud.’
‘You?’ She could not believe what she was hearing.
‘Aye, me. I did it. I found him in Naomi’s house. He’d been working in London for the last five years, in a jeweller’s shop or something like that Dinna look at me like that. What else could I do?’
‘You arrested Donald? Your own son. What for? What had he done?’
‘Maud, he’d been posted as a deserter.’
‘And you didn’t try to help him? Your own son? You just arrested him, just like that?’
‘What the hell else could I do?’
‘Your own son.’
‘Maud, Donald is a soldier. Could I treat him any different to the way I’d treat any other soldier? Well, tell me, could I? Dae ye think it didna hurt me? Dae ye think I didna curse the fate that had made it me that should find him?’
‘What will they do to him?’ she asked, and her voice was flat and lifeless.
‘They’ll court-martial him. He’s got to have a court martial. After that, I don’t know.’
‘Oh, but you do know, don’t you, Willie Bruce? You know exactly what they’ll do to him,
only you won’t tell me, and you won’t tell me because you’re afraid. I know what they do to deserters.’
‘Don’t, Maud. You’re just torturing the both of us.’
‘Shall I tell you what they do to deserters, Willie? Because they’re going to do it to Donald. They’re going to do it to our son.’
‘Please, Maud.’
‘You’re afraid to hear, aren’t you? But you’re going to hear. They’ll march him out in the half light and they’ll tie him to a post and as the sun breaks over the horizon, they’ll kill him! Your son. My Donald.’ She was near to hysteria.
‘Maud, please, I haven’t got much time.’
‘Why, have you more to do?’
‘I’m going tae tell you, Maud, and you are going to listen.’
‘Go on, I’m listening.’
‘I’m going back to Edinburgh on the overnight train from Inverness. They’re bringing Donald there. I’ve done ma duty as a soldier. Now I must dae everything in my power tae get the laddie off.’
She just sat there staring at him. If only she would say something, scream, break down. But she did nothing.
‘Maud,’ he pleaded, ‘dae ye no ken how hard it is for me to ha’ to tell you this? Dae ye no understand what this has done tae me inside? I feel that I hate the army and yet … Maud, I dinna ken who I am. Help me, Maud.’
He waited but she seemed to be turned to stone. Finally he could stand it no longer. ‘Woman, have you nothing tae say?’ he blurted out.
‘Only this. I shall not see you until the outcome of this is known, and if the worst happens I shall never see you again. I love you, Willie Bruce. God help me, I cannot stop. But if you fail to save our son, that will be the end.’ She turned away from him and then added quickly, ‘You had better go now.’
He opened his mouth to speak but there were no words. Silently he turned and left her.
Ian found Willie in the company of two others in the hotel lounge. They were seated in comfortable leather armchairs at a low table with drinks in front of them. There was an elderly man who had a round, jovial face with pink cheeks and white hair, and a most incredibly clear skin. He was dressed in formal evening attire. But it was the lady sitting next to him who really caught his eye and promptly captured all of his attention.
She was small, almost tiny, and Ian thought that he had never seen anything quite so delicately beautiful. For a moment he forgot the grim purpose of his visit and only stared. She was like a piece of precious porcelain, beautifully moulded. Her fair, tending to golden, hair was drawn back from her clear forehead and from a centre parting, falling in soft ringlets which seemed to caress the sides of her face. Her deep blue eyes seemed to sparkle as they twinkled a greeting at his approach. She smiled and he couldn’t take his eyes off her.
‘Ah, Ian.’ Willie’s voice brought Ian back to reality. ‘Glad you could manage to come. This is Sir Godfrey MacAdam, and his daughter Victoria.’
If he had not known Willie all his life, Ian would have thought that he was behaving as if on any normal social occasion. But knowing him as he did, he realized the tension behind the careful words and precisely enunciated syllables.
‘Miss MacAdam,’ said Ian, looking again at that vision. He bowed his head in acknowledgement of the introduction. ‘Sir Godfrey.’
They accepted his greeting with a murmur. ‘Hello, Uncle Willie,’ he said. ‘Thank you for asking me.’
‘It would have been sooner, but I had to give evidence first.’
‘Yes, of course, sir.’
‘Well now, would you like a little something before we go in and eat?’ And without waiting for a reply, Willie ordered a Glenlivet for Ian.
‘Thank you, sir.’ Ian sat down beside Miss MacAdam while the waiter brought his drink.
‘This must be a very worrying time for you, Captain Maclaren,’ said Miss MacAdam. ‘Your uncle has been telling us all about it. He and Daddy have been spending days together.’
‘Sir Godfrey,’ said Willie, by way of explanation, ‘is a Queen’s Counsellor and a very distinguished member of the Scottish bar. I have told him everything that I can, and he thinks that you have a chance. Certainly he will be able to help you in the presentation of your case.’
‘That is very kind of you, sir,’ said Ian.
‘Sir Godfrey,’ continued Willie, ‘is quite willing to take over the case but he feels, and I think that he is right, that a soldier will have more sympathy from the court than a high-powered advocate.’
‘But wouldn’t he be much better?’
‘We don’t know,’ said Willie. ‘After dinner, you two can put your heads together and make that decision between you.’
‘Well, thanks a lot,’ said Ian. ‘But why do we have to wait till after dinner?’
‘I want to get to know you a little first. Your uncle has given me a very strange brief, but it intrigues me; and more than that, Brigadier Bruce is a man I admire, and from what I have heard, I think I admire his son even more.’ Sir Godfrey’s clipped, precise speech belied his round friendly appearance. ‘Just try and be yourself during dinner and then after we have eaten, you and I will have a long session. And tomorrow, one of us, probably yourself, will go in there and get that young man off.’
‘I can only pray that you are right, sir.’
‘Amen to that,’ said Willie. ‘Well, shall we go in? You two youngsters might as well go in together.’
‘May I, Miss MacAdam?’ said Ian, offering his arm and praying that she would not prove too much of a distraction from the task at hand.
‘Thank you, Captain Maclaren.’ And there was that smile again.
In spite of the undoubted effect which this charming young lady had had upon him, Ian was trying very hard to concentrate on the main purpose of this meeting. He was well aware that his overconfidence may have placed his friend’s life in jeopardy. After all, this was not a game, and though anyone might lose it, Ian viewed with horror the thought that he might have to be that one.
Ian was very quiet during dinner. Most of the talking was done by Sir Godfrey, who was obviously trying to draw him out. What kept Ian even more quiet than he would otherwise have been was that Sir Godfrey discussed anything and everything except the case.
At the end of dinner Willie announced that he was going to escort Victoria home, leaving Ian and Sir Godfrey to get on with their discussion. Willie took his time, and it was approaching ten thirty, an hour and a half later, when he returned. He found them sitting together in the lounge. Sir Godfrey was smiling quietly and Ian was sipping a drink, his brow puckered, obviously deep in thought
‘Well,’ said Willie anxiously as he approached them, ‘how’s it going?’
Sir Godfrey looked hard at Ian. ‘It’s going very well. What do you say, Ian?’
‘I only hope that you are right, sir.’
‘I think,’ said Sir Godfrey, ‘that this young man can win the case and I think that he ought to handle it himself.’
‘You’re quite sure about that, sir?’ said Ian.
‘Quite.’
‘It’s my boy’s life you are playing with,’ said Willie.
‘I know,’ said Sir Godfrey. ‘But I am sure that Ian here would have a better chance than I. After all, I am a professional and a civilian and soldiers are notoriously suspicious of both. In a court martial you have to take greater cognizance of people and their emotions than you would ever dream of doing in a civilian court.’
‘Well,’ said Willie, and there was still a doubt in his voice, ‘How do you feel about it, Ian? Can you do it?’
‘I think that we have a very good chance, sir,’ he replied. ‘Besides, Sir Godfrey has promised me a reward if I win the case.’ He smiled slightly.
‘Reward?’ said Willie, raising a questioning eyebrow. ‘What reward?’
‘I told the lad,’ said Sir Godfrey, ‘that if he wins the case, he has my permission to call on my daughter. But we have little time, and there is a job for you, Brigadier, one that has t
o be done at once.’
‘Name it and it’ll be done.’
‘We want to call another witness, sir,’ said Ian.
‘I believe, at least your nephew told me, that the man we want is at this moment in the Maclaren barracks at Beauly. Have they got the telephone up there?’
‘Och, aye,’ said Willie, ‘they have that.’
‘Well, then, there’s a train that leaves Inverness some time after midnight and gets into Edinburgh some time in the small hours. Do you think you could get him on that train?’
Willie looked at the clock. Whoever it was would have to ride post-haste from Beauly if he was going to make that train. ‘It’ll be pretty tight,’ he said.
‘Can it be done?’ asked Ian.
‘It will be done,’ said Willie, ‘and I’d better go and do it right awa’. What’s his name?’
It was just before nine o’clock the following morning that Ian tapped on the door of Donald’s room. The escort answered.
‘I want to see the prisoner alone,’ said Ian.
‘I’ll be just outside,’ said the escort, and he stood aside to allow Ian to enter.
Buoyed up with renewed confidence after his long talk with Sir Godfrey, Ian went in. It was a depressing sight. Donald was sitting on his unmade bed in his shirtsleeves. The place was beginning to look more and more like a cell and Donald was looking more and more like a man who had lost all hope, and, for that matter, all interest in what was happening. Ian paused silently for a moment, feeling the confidence oozing out of him. Donald did not even bother to look up.
‘Donald,’ said Ian, ‘I’m not sure at this point whether or not I shall ask you to give evidence. It depends entirely on what happens this morning. I have two more witnesses to call and one of them is new. Until we have had this evidence, I cannot be sure that your own evidence would be of any value to your case.’
‘What are you up to, Ian?’ asked Donald. ‘We both know that I have very little chance. I don’t suppose that it will make any difference if I give evidence or not.’