by R. W. Hughes
It was well before dawn the following day that he and his companion Douglas Polson, riding the small but nimble mountain ponies and leading one as a pack animal, quietly left the imposing structure of the great stone walls of Tongue House. They had several days’ journey in front of them. The route they intended to take was not along the regular drovers’ tracks, but over rough, wild, unpopulated rarely travelled country of the Highlands. They were now an hour’s ride into their journey having left the fortified dwelling well behind them before the sun rose. They were confident that they were now well clear of any inquisitive eyes and subsequent wagging tongues. George’s intention was to scout the area that had been occupied by the Sutherland men—to see how many men had been left to defend their occupation of the MacKay lands—then plan his campaign once he’d seen the lay of the land.
It was during this time travelling together that he learnt about the life that Douglas had led since their childhood, which seemed so many years ago.
Douglas’s mother had unfortunately died when he was only eight years old; his father had been like many of the Highland hard men, finding it difficult to show any emotion or feelings towards his offspring, even his only son. This had been in complete contrast to his mother who really, if the truth be known, wanted a daughter, and sheltered and protected Douglas as if he was. Suddenly! On the death of his mother, he was thrown at an early age into the harsh unforgiving world of the Highland crofter. It was this hard, physical work that had developed his tremendous physique.
His father had been a trader in livestock and had regularly travelled down to the large market at Carlisle. Collecting and driving the odd beast here the few sheep there on his journey until he and the drovers he employed were in charge of a sizable herd of cattle accompanied by a large flock of sheep. He and the drovers worked on a percentage basis on the sale of the livestock they had collected, so it was to his advantage to obtain the best price possible and keep the animals in a fair condition for when they reached the market.
They also acted as smugglers of illicit whisky that was distilled by most crofters in the Highlands, delivering this potent fluid to merchants who would in turn supply their regular clients. The funds earned by this illegal traffic helped the crofters pay their dues and rent to the clan chief, in many cases the clear liquid was used as a direct payment.
Both men travelled for two days over the high moors and misty mountains of Canisp and Quinag, eventually approaching the Stoirhead of Assint, the mouth of the river. He had decided to take this long and torturous route to reduce the risk of coming into contact with any travellers as they were crossing the areas dominated by the Sutherlands on land that bordered the small Clan Macleod. There had been no love lost between the Clan Macleod and the MacKays; the relationship had been frosty ever since Donald MacKay had purchased the islands adjoining their border over a hundred years before. The ensuing occupation by several crofter families associated with the MacKays had been a constant irritant to the Macleods ever since. But they had never felt strong enough to attempt to claim the islands by force, they also at the same time avoided becoming actively involved in the constant disputes and battles between their more powerful neighbours: the MacKay and the Sutherlands.
They had reached the end of their journey, and after tethering their ponies a safe distance away so as not to be heard, they had settled down to observe the small village of Tarbert from a low hill to the northwest of the group of crofter’s dwellings.
‘I think, George, this is definitely where Sutherland has billeted the bulk of his men. The Macleod have turned a blind eye to the situation,’ said Douglas, indicating the fortified house that had been previously occupied by the Mathowson family, a sept of the Clan MacKay.
‘Look!’ said Douglas as another group of men appeared and then made their way to where the carcass of a pig was being turned slowly over an open fire.
‘Yes, they are living well on the livestock of the previous residents,’ replied George pointing in the direction where a small herd of six Highland cattle were being driven through the centre of the village from a boat that had delivered them from the nearby Island of Handa.
‘They’re moving all the livestock from the larger islands to this point then they’ll drive them all deeper into their own territory. There must be over fifty men in the village, and possibly more in the neighbourhood, so if they were to be forewarned that we were coming to attack them and send for assistance, we could find ourselves trapped and isolated far from our own base. I fear it will be difficult. In fact, nigh impossible for us to move a large force across this open country unnoticed.’
‘I agree with what you say,’ replied Douglas.
‘Mmmmm,’ sounded George, as the germ of an idea was beginning to form in his mind. ‘The secret would be to use this to our advantage,’ he said aloud to himself.
They stopped for a further few minutes longer watching the village from their vantage point, as further groups of men gathered around the roasting pig.
‘Come Douglas! I think we have seen enough. Let us depart as quietly and as silently as we came; the next time we visit this place we will be coming to settle a grievance drawing Sutherland and Duncan blood towards paying the debt they owe the MacKays.’
The two men slipped quietly from the high ground they had occupied starting to make their way back the half mile to where they had tethered their ponies. They were returning along a faint rock-strewn path through a wooded corpse of birch and hazel when from a short distance in front of them they heard men’s voices in conversation and the sound of hooves on stones coming towards them.
This few seconds’ warning allowed them to draw and cock their pistols but insufficient time to slip and hide in the nearby undergrowth.
Around the corner on the path leading George and Douglas’s three ponies plus one of their own with the carcass of a red deer fastened across its back came two armed Sutherland men with two more bringing up the rear. For a split second, the men leading the ponies froze, before making a desperate grab for their pistols, the explosion from both George and Douglas’s firearms were as one, at such close range their intended targets crumpled to the ground.
The other two Sutherland men had collided with the rear of the ponies as they had come to a sudden halt. This, with the crash of the pistols at such close range, was too much for the startled beasts, who quickly about-turned, bolting back down the path from which they had just been led, knocking aside the remaining two Sutherland men in the process. Before these men had recovered, one had taken a sword belonging to George through the shoulder, as he was attempting to draw his own broadsword. The other was off running through the nearby undergrowth, a loud crack from behind George as Douglas fired his second pistol, sent the man spinning into the waist high ferns, but he was back up in a flash and off like a startled jack rabbit.
‘Aaar! I only winged him,’ exclaimed Douglas in a disappointed tone.
‘I wouldn’t fret too much, Douglas; you’ll get plenty of practice on our return visit,’ George commented dryly, which brought a great guffaw of laughter from his companion.
Both men then set off jogging along the path, realising that even if the sound of their shots had not been heard in the village, the wounded man would soon raise the alarm, and a hue and cry would inevitably follow. They realised that their lives were at stake and they needed to make as much distance as possible between themselves and their eventual pursuers. They cleared the small wood, and in the distance, they could see their ponies still running across the open moor heading back in the direction they had first travelled a few hours earlier. As Douglas started to follow in the same direction as the animals, George restrained him. ‘I think we should take a different route than our mounts, Douglas; our pursuers may well follow those ponies, which will give us a much longer start.’ It was obvious that Douglas didn’t want to lose the valuable animals along with the contents of the pack pony, but he rel
uctantly obeyed.
Both men then set off in a different direction to their animals, keeping to the middle of a shallow brook to hide their passage across the moor.
‘I studied the map before we left on this mission, and this stream will eventually take us to Loch Laxford. It will take us away from the direct route back to Tongue but it will be a safer route in the end.’ He shouted struggling to keep up with his friend. Even though Douglas Polson was taller, broader, heavier and overall much larger, he was in much better physical condition than George, who was struggling to stay with his companion as he set a blistering fast pace.
Eventually as the stream became wider and deeper, even Douglas was forced to continue their escape by traveling along its banks, where George was struggling over the rough ground, occasionally stumbling over the large tussocks of moor-land grass, gasping for breath as he attempted to follow his much fitter companion.
After several hours Douglas had been forced to slow from his fast pace so that his friend did not lag too far behind, but even so George needed to rest.
‘Douglas, I need to stop! I am exhausted.’ He gasped collapsing and sitting on a large tussock of grass. Douglas stopped returning several paces, observing George sitting there with his head in his hands wheezing and coughing. His hair was matted and wet with sweat and stuck to his head, and he was soaked from the waist down from their journey in the stream.
‘This city life certainly makes men soft; it’s definitely not for me,’ Douglas thought as he scanned the skyline in the direction from which they had just come. ‘We can’t stay here. We’re too exposed, so you’ll have to keep moving, George. Below is the beginning of Loch Laxford so there will be more cover in the coppices along its banks; you can rest there.’ There was the hint of panic in Douglas’s voice; they were here stranded on the middle of an exposed moor, in country that was practically uninhabited, being pursued by men who if they could would dispose of them without showing any mercy.
George was still sitting on the tussock of grass. He was breathing more easily now, but was thinking, What a stupid scheme he had involved Douglas Polson and himself in. There was a distinct possibility that they would not come out of this escapade in one piece, and it would be one of the shortest periods of time a clan chief had ever ruled!
The whistle of a shot and the thud as it sank into the tussock of grass, on which he was sitting, followed by a sharp crack of a musket startled both men into action. Coming over the brow of a nearby low hill were a group of figures, another whistle and thud as the shot hit the ground behind the two now running men, this was followed by another crack of a musket from the direction of the chasing group which caused both men to dramatically increase their speed.
‘They have muskets and we only have pistols; they can pick us off at will,’ shouted Douglas, as another shot whistled over their heads. There was no reply from his companion he was saving his breath for running.
They lost sight of their pursuers as they continued running in a gully that ran parallel with the loch, the twists and turns keeping them out of sight of the Sutherlands. Eventually they came around the lee of a low hill coming to the banks of the loch.
‘We’ll swim the loch. That will slow them down, and if they try to follow us they won’t be able to take their muskets, so later if it comes to a fight, we’ll be more evenly matched, and it will take them hours to travel around the loch,’ he gasped.
‘I can’a swim!’
The blunt statement from Douglas came as a shock and caused George to do some quick thinking which made for a change of plan. ‘Douglas! No arguments leave me your spare pistol, you carry on around the loch, and the hill will hide you once you clear the outcrop.’
‘I will not leave you, George. If we stand, we stand or we fall together.’
‘No Douglas, I’m going to swim across the loch. You meet me on the other side. You can outrun them, but I can’t, so this is a chance for both of us to survive. Now GO!’ At the same time, he gave his big friend a push that sent him reluctantly on his way.
Positioning himself behind a slight rock outcrop, he took the time to regain his breath and prime and load the three pistols, he then removed his kilt and shawl wrapping it in a ball then fastening it together with his belt. A group of three men, obviously younger and fitter than their companions, came panting around the edge of the low hill. One of them carried a musket. George waited until they were about ten paces away then stepped from his hiding place.
The group of man stopped suddenly, temporary stunned at suddenly being confronted by a half-naked man. Taking advantage of their surprise, he fired two of the pistols into the group. The man carrying the musket crumpled with a ball in the chest, while the man standing beside him grabbed at his shoulder turned running back the way he had come, stumbling. He then recovered followed by the uninjured third man who quickly overtook his injured companion.
Taking careful aim; the shot from George’s third pistol caught this man between his shoulder blades, the heavy ball sending him falling onto his face. He did not rise.
Taking the first man’s fallen musket, he checked it was loaded then primed the firearm. Crawling round the edge of the hill he could see the wounded man had now reached the rest of his companions who had gathered around him. Aiming the musket at the centre of the group he fired. One man collapsed in a heap, tried to rise and then fell back his feet twitching uncontrollably for several seconds, before becoming still. The others meantime had scattered desperately trying to find some form of cover on the bare hillside. Taking the firearm by the barrel, he swung the musket against a rock and left it with a shattered butt and damaged barrel, doing the same to the firing mechanism of the pistols.
Now, collecting the bundled kilt, he ran towards the loch. When he reached the edge of the water, he did not stop but continued till the water came up to his waist, the coldness of the water taking his breath away. With the bundle fastened to his shirt by his belt, he started to swim dragging the bundle a yard behind him.
It was a full ten minutes before his pursuers built up courage to advance, slowly and fearfully around the bottom of the hill. Realising that the two men they had been chasing had gone. It was several more minutes before the useless musket and pistols were discovered along with George’s broadsword, which he had not had the heart to damage, and in the heat of the moment had not given it to Douglas to save. They then moved to the water’s edge, bringing many curses from the men at the destruction of such valuable personal firearms.
‘They’re swimming the loch,’ shouted the man who had found the equipment and pointed to the two heads he could see bobbing at a great distance away heading towards the centre of the loch. Several of the men fired their muskets at the two small targets but the distance was too great, all the shot created were plumes of water as they fell about eight paces short.
‘Load more powder.’ The snarled instructions came from the leader of the group, who shouted down the objections from the owners of the muskets, standing over them as they loaded and primed their firearms.
Nicolas Duncan, nephew of the clan chief was in a foul mood. He had recognised George at the confrontation when his three companions had been cut down; he had been knocked head over heels by the power of the pistol ball as it had, luckily for him, hit the brass buckle on his leather shoulder strap sword support.
He was convinced that George or his companion had also recognised him as well, and for them to escape it would only be a matter of time before the High Sheriff was forced to start searching the area for him. This would force him to hide elsewhere in the Highlands, leaving his comfortable warm accommodation for temporary draughty shelters or damp cold caves.
‘Aim for the head of the far man. If it falls short, it may hit the second man,’ he shouted.
‘The light is fading fast, Nicolas,’ the man with the musket responded.
‘Aim and fire! Damn you!’ screamed Nicol
as Duncan.
The man nodded and took careful aim. George felt the whistle of the ball as it passed just several inches from his ear, causing a spout of water several feet in front of him, followed by the crack of the musket.
‘You missed!’ exclaimed an expectorated Nicolas. The second man rested the barrel of his musket on the shoulder of his companion, taking careful aim. At the same time he fired, George snatched a glance behind as he desperately tried to increase his speed, finding the bundled kilt and shawl he was dragging behind him a great hindrance.
What he saw was the flash of the musket, but he was too far away to hear the screams of the bearer and his companion, but he did hear the crack as the breach of the musket exploded, and the shards of metal blinding the holder and blowing the top and back off the head off the man in front, whose shoulder the barrel had been resting. The rest of the group on the shore scattered diving to the ground as these pieces of musket barrel flew amongst them, causing lacerations to the flesh of those nearest. By the time their leader had shouted and bullied them back into action and they had reorganised themselves, he was well out of range.
Reluctantly, Nicolas with the remaining men decided at this point as there were no boats available in which to follow, and they were to weary to chase around the loch in the faint forlorn hope of meeting the swimmer on the far side before he left the water to give up the chase. To swim after the two men would be suicidal, as they would be too weary to fight or defend themselves when they came out of the loch at the other side, and that was if they could manage to swim that far and did not drown beforehand. They had already lost a total of five men dead and several wounded, with little to show for their troubles: only several pistols and a musket with their flint holders and mechanism damaged beyond repair along with a broadsword and three ponies.
George meanwhile was tiring; the water which was icy cold was leaving his limbs numb with no sense of feeling. He had always been a strong swimmer but his waterlogged clothing he was pulling behind him was holding him back and dragging him down. He realised he would be very fortunate to succeed in his effort to swim the width of the loch; it had been foolish on his part to attempt such a feat he would surely fail and drown. He would have to change direction and try and make it to the small island two thirds across. He had no idea how long he was in the water or how he managed to keep afloat and continue swimming; his mind was numbed by the cold. He barely had the strength left to drag himself out of the water, lying on the shingle beach for several minutes retching up the water he had swallowed in the last desperate twenty yards, before his feet had finely touched solid ground.