Broadsword

by R. W. Hughes

  Things looked much brighter for his group, after a hot meal and they were able to relax and feel the warmth from a roaring log fire with the bitter cold they had just experienced seeming so far behind them. He could not help thinking what a lucky chap he was as he looked at Fiona, her face radiant from the heat of the fire after the extremes of their journey. And the fact that she had not complained once even though her slim frame had been constantly bounced from side-to-side and up- and-down without any pause along the rutted and potholed track they had travelled along that day. He could not help but compare her with his mother; she too had been of a similar build but had always shown quiet strong determination with a stubborn will of iron.

  After a most comfortable night in a large bed that had been warmed initially by a large brass bed pan by the proprietor’s wife, and the same lady had slipped into the room while she thought they were still sleeping before dawn that morning, but George being a light sleeper had watched her through half-closed eyelids—his hand on the dirk under his pillow—as she had thoughtfully laid and started the fire in the small grate in the bedroom before quietly slipping out of the room again.

  The following morning had arrived cold but without the biting wind and flurries of snow they had experienced the previous day. The group after a warming breakfast of hot porridge sweetened with honey felt well prepared for the day’s journey ahead.

  ‘It is a good day for travelling George,’ observed Douglas as he brought his frisky mount under control.

  ‘Aye, they seem to have appreciated spending the night in a warm stable and a feed of oats this morning,’ he replied as he passed the reins of his horse to his friend while he went to help the cab driver who was struggling to harness his horse to the carriage. When Fiona was settled in the carriage and he was also mounted the small party set off in the clear morning air on the next stage of their journey.

  Progress was still slow restricted to the pace of the trap, which was really designed for harder and smoother surfaces than the ploughed field appearance of the track it was being forced to negotiate.

  ‘Can you not increase your pace driver?’ he shouted, as he pulled his horse alongside the driver becoming frustrated at the slow speed.

  ‘Aye, I can, sir, but the springs will not stand the strain, and you could well be left without any transport for your lady.’ He looked inside the trap; Fiona waved and smiled at him, then returned to gripping the metal supports of the canopy for support.

  It was late afternoon when the small party came across two wagons being pulled by four oxen apiece; these were so heavily laden that their wheels had broken the layer of ice that had formed a hard crust on the road, and through to the deep mud below which was greatly hindering their progress.

  ‘Ask if they will move over and allow us to pass, Douglas.’ He shouted to his friend who was riding several yards in front of the trap while he was bringing up the rear. He watched as Douglas spurred his horse forward to bring himself level with the driver and his mate of the slow-moving rear wagon. From his position, he could see the driver shaking his head, and hear the raised voice of Douglas. Knowing the short fuse of his friend when he was in a temper, he rode forward to see what the problem was.

  ‘They refuse to move these overloaded carts off the track and allow us to pass,’ shouted Douglas, glaring at first the driver and then at his mate as he drew his horse level. ‘Why is that driver? ’Enquired George

  ‘Your friend did not give me chance to explain before he ordered us off the road,’ replied the driver in an injured tone. ‘The track along this stretch is narrow as you can see; either side is waterlogged, if we pull over from the track we will sink up to our axles in the bog, we could be stuck there for days, and the same would apply to your trap if you left the track here.’

  ‘Do you realize who you are talking?’ Douglas stopped in mid-sentence as George raised his hand.

  ‘Where will we be able to pass your wagons, driver?’ George had realized at once the logic of the driver’s statement.

  ‘There is a place about a mile further along, sir, before the village of Melvich. You should if you take care pull around us there.

  Reluctantly and under his instructions, their small group pulled in behind the slow-moving wagons.

  It was while this discussion was taking place with George and the wagon driver that a lone rider came in sight of the rear of the group. He stopped his pony to mentally weigh up the situation in front of him before doing an about turn and travelling back the way he had come.

  Fifteen minutes later, he joined his leader and his two companions along with a very saddle-sore Magnus.

  ‘Well!’ exclaimed Nicolas Duncan. ‘Did you find them?’

  ‘Yes Nicolas, but they have teamed up with two wagons and there are four men with the wagons and the two with MacKay.’

  Nicolas Duncan cursed out loud, ‘The pox on that bastard MacKay!’

  He realized it was an opportunity missed that might not materialize again. He was now outnumbered by seven to four, and he had not even counted Magnus as he had observed him struggling to ride the pony and classed him as a city dandy useless if it came to a fight. Even in the event of an ambush with surprise on their side he knew the mates of the wagon drivers would be well armed with a blunderbuss or something similar to protect their load against footpads He also knew that George and his friend Douglas were a formable duo. He was also bordering MacKay territory and he knew from previous experience how quickly a muster of well-armed men could be raised if needed to pursue them. And their mounts were not in the best of condition. No! He would have to bide his time, because the odds were not in his favor, today was not the time or place. He would change direction and take this city dweller to see his lordship and see if this knowledge he carried was as important as this man had made it out to be.

  Unbeknown to Nicolas Duncan as he was having his discussion and making decisions for his party, they too were being observed from the shelter of a small distant coppice of trees. As the rider sent by Nicolas Duncan had stopped his horse and from a distance observed George’s small party behind the two wagons before returning, he had gone unnoticed by both George and Douglas. However, not by Fiona, who happened to be looking back down the track as the rider had appeared seeing him stop for a few moments, then abruptly about turn and departed the way he had come.

  ‘George!’ the shout from Fiona from the meager shelter of the trap cab brought him wheeling his horse to her side. ‘During your discussion with the wagon driver I saw a rider at our rear observing us from a distance, he has since returned the way he came, and his actions seemed quite odd.’

  Immediately alarm bells began to ring in his brain, from what Fiona had described they were the actions of an advance scout of possibly a larger hostile force in the vicinity. After a brief explanation to Douglas to prime his weapons and inform the wagon drivers to do the same, he passed his musket to the startled cab driver, then on reflection changed it for his pistol, and with a backward shout for him to prime the weapon and be prepared to protect his passenger, he spurred his horse heading back along the track from whence they had travelled.

  As he observed the group of horsemen with his spyglass from the shelter of the trees, he could see they were not sufficient in number to be a serious threat now that they had joined forces with the wagon drivers who were now armed and prepared. As he looked at the men more closely it came as a great surprise to recognize the translator from Edinburgh, the man he now knew as Magnus. He stiffened and cursed under his breath as he also recognized Nicolas Duncan, the murderer of his father and brother. Oh! How he wished he had in his possession one of those more accurate rifled barreled muskets. He was in a dilemma, before him were the murderer of his father and brother whose deaths he had sworn to avenge, alongside a man who had information that could and seriously threaten the future finances of the Clan MacKay. The removal of either of these men could jeopard
ize the present shaky alliance between the MacKays and the followers of the Earl of Sutherland.

  He raised his musket; he wavered between Nicolas Duncan and the man at his side who he only knew as Magnus, the musket settled on Nicolas Duncan and he squeezed the trigger. There was no instant discharge of the weapon as the hammer hit the pan and he knew instantly that his powder had become damp in the atrocious weather. As he took his eye off his target to glance at the powder bowl, there was a small puff of smoke and the weapon fired catching him by surprise. The loud explosion and the ensuing black smoke startled his mount and by the time he managed to bring it under control the group in front of him were riding off down the track one man supporting his partner but the injured man was neither the translator nor Nicolas Duncan.

  He could only watch as the group rode off, as much as he would have liked to pursue them he knew it would be a foolhardy act on his part. If the group realized he was only one man, they could well turn on him and then continue to attack his companions. But he could not help but smile to himself, as even from this distance he could see that the man from Edinburgh was not at all comfortable on a galloping horse, swinging wildly and hanging over the horses’ neck clinging desperately to its long mane.

  He stayed in the shelter of the coppice until the group disappeared into the gloom before turning his own horse and heading back to his own small convoy. He had decided he would find lodgings and stay in the village of Melvichis that night. The threat from Nicolas Duncan and his henchmen had dispersed but uppermost in his mind was Fiona; even though she remained uncomplaining, there had been no respite from the constant bitter cold.

  And he had not failed to notice that even though she had forced a smile towards him when he glanced in her direction, she was shivering uncontrollably. Also at the back of his mind was the worrying thought of the presence of Magnus in the company of the Sutherlands, the knowledge of what this translator possessed posed a more serious long-term threat, but that problem would have to be dealt with as and when it arose, at least he was now pre-warned and could prepare for any incursions from the Sutherlands against the MacKay Clan. But now he had to concentrate on the present. By the following evening, all being well, they would be in the MacKay stronghold of Tongue, and there he would introduce his wife to his uncle and family and later to the senior members of his clan. No doubt there would be a party to celebrate his marriage and his safe homecoming to coincide with the coming Christmas rejoicings.

  It was Douglas that rode out to meet George as he approached the group of vehicles, having heard the report of the musket and fearing the worst for his friend. His relief was evident on the beaming smile as he pulled his horse level with George and observed that his friend was not injured in any way.

  Before joining the rest of the group and so as not to alarm Fiona he briefly told Douglas of the encounter. ‘Fiona was right. It was a scout from a larger party led by the murderer, Nicolas Duncan.’ George could see the smile drop from his friend’s face and his features harden at the name. ‘And that is not all,’ he continued. ‘The translator Magnus was with the group’.

  ‘How! When!’ was all that Douglas could utter a look of amazement replacing the previous angry scowl.

  ‘Yes, I was as surprised as you, Douglas.’

  ‘And the shot I heard?’ enquired a curious Douglas.

  ‘Fortunately for my intended target, the range was too great for accurate shooting, and I just winged one of Nicolas Duncan’s henchmen. They scurried off as fast as their mounts would carry them, and I feel sure we will not be bothered by that party of misfits tonight, but know I think we should move on, as quickly as possible and obtain lodgings in the village of Melviches, before this foul weather gets any worse.’

  ‘I agree with your decision George, we have pushed these horses hard in these conditions and they are as weary as their passengers,’ he said indicating the cab containing Fiona as both men drew level with the vehicles that had been pulled into a tight defensive circle

  As the group settled down in the fortified farmhouse on the village outskirts, they all felt they would be safe there for the night. The farm buildings were situated on a slight rise above the surrounding ground built there for its defensive position with its thick stone walls and solid oak door with narrow window openings that gave a clear view of the surrounding countryside. Even though he had seen the Sutherland men ride off, there was no guarantee that they would not risk returning possibly with more armed men and he felt safe in their present position.

  After the group had all sat down with the farmer’s family and shared their meal, the farmer’s wife dishing out several helpings of stew that quickly warmed and drove the chill from their bodies; the heat from the glowing fire and the hot food bringing a rosy glow to all their faces.

  After the meal Branan Macghee, the farmer who had been with George at the battle at the pass, and his wife vacated their bedroom and moved in with their young children, allowing George and Fiona to settle down in the privacy of their room.

  As added security, Douglas had volunteered to make himself comfortable in the farmhouse kitchen, the wagon drivers along with the cab driver moved into the adjoining stable bedding down amongst the straw and benefiting from the warmth from the horses and the four oxen.

  As he snuggled close to Fiona between the clean sheets provided by Branan Macghees wife, and the room warmed by a peat fire burning in the hearth, he was glad he had decided to stop the night in the village of Melvichis, instead of attempting to strike deeper into the safety of MacKay territory, especially as he could hear the rain and sleet driven by the howling wind battering against the glass of the bedroom window.

  Before he fell asleep his thoughts wandered back the few hours when he had fired on the group of unsuspecting men. Who of his university friends would have imagined it was possible for him, from being a studious junior lawyer in an old established firm, to act like an assassin and take the law into his own hands, and being prepared to go to the extremes of murder in order to protect his loved ones, and be prepared to avenge the murder of his father and brother? But this vicious streak worried him. He had not hesitated to make the same decision many years ago while serving in the colony of Georgia in the New World when he had led the colony’s Highland Independent Company and hastily raised militia in an ambush against the invading Spanish forces. And even though they had been outnumbered five to one, he had embraced the Highland charge and the vicious close infighting of the Scottish Militia which had broken the spirit of the Spanish troops, forcing them to retire with heavy losses from St Simons island, and foregoing their expansion plans for that area. In addition, he experienced the same level of excitement when leading his men against the Duncans and Sutherlands at the battle of Ben Loyal Pass and the adrenalin that had surged through his body during that charge and the ensuing bloody battle that followed.

  That night on the 20th December 1745, as George and his small group were warm and dry protected from the winter storm by the sturdy stone walls of the farmhouse and its outbuildings, Prince Charles’ retreating Jacobite Army in good order passed over the border and back into Scotland.

  At the same time Nicolas and Magnus Duncan were braving the storm and even though they and their mounts were weary and on the point of collapse, they still struggled on their way towards their destination, Dunrobin Castle, the stronghold of the Earl of Sutherland.

  Nicolas Duncan, as soon as they were clear of MacKay territory, had deposited on an unfortunate farmer the wounded man and his companions, with a promise to send help as soon as was feasible. He had taken their horses to give Magnus and himself spare fresh mounts. Magnus was miserable. He had never seen a man shot before, or the extent of the damage caused by a ball hitting bone as it passed through a man’s flesh and the jagged hole as the splintered bone and flesh were forced to the surface. He had been physically sick and then collapsed in a faint as the injured man’s clothes were cut away
and his gaping wound was exposed. And as a crude attempt was made to close and stitch the damage, the man’s screams filled the room, and only stopped when he lapsed into unconsciousness.

  As Magnus slowly recovered, none of his companions had attempted to assist or help him, just looked down on him with obvious contempt as he slowly stirred and dragged himself upright from his position on the crofter’s kitchen floor where he had collapsed. The warmth of the kitchen was short-lived as Nicolas Duncan was eager to continue his journey. And once again, Magnus was bundled outside, mounted on the pony and was soon riding into the teeth of the gale.

  He was soon soaked to the skin and freezing cold. He had no feeling in his hands or feet, and his light city clothes were of little protection on the storm swept exposed wild moor. Too add to his discomfort, the saddle sores, of which he had numerous, had burst adding more pain on what was the most torturous journey he had ever encountered. Every jolt of the horse made him wish he had never set out on what at the time had seemed a straightforward journey of delivering his message to the earl, collecting his substantial reward and then returning to Edinburgh. Even though he was in such great pain he dozed off but still all he could recall was the gaping wound of the injured man and groans of pain coming from his semi-conscious lips as his associates clumsily attempted to sew the wound together and dress the damage caused by George MacKay’s musket ball, but falling from his pony into the thick mud and slush that covered the track they were following brutally shook Magnus out of his dozing. Nicolas Duncan had stopped his own pony but did not dismount to help; he simply watched as the man now sobbing uncontrollably and covered in clinging mud was struggling to stand upright, and attempting to re-mount his pony, while at the same time hold on to a nervous spare horse. He wondered if the information this poor wretch carried was really worth the effort involved to deliver him to his chieftain at their Sutherland stronghold.