Ardnish

by Angus MacDonald

  ‘It’s around the back of the house, by the grist mill,’ I reply. ‘You’ll only find an inch or two in it; Louise just about emptied it yesterday.’

  Laboriously he pulls on his boots and heads out, no doubt thankful that this isn’t the sort of problem they have in Edinburgh these days.

  It’s now or never, I tell myself, as I await his return.

  He’s soon back with the tin. ‘You’ve a few hours of fuel left for the lamp and then you’ll be out.’

  ‘I’m sorry that my confession has been such a long time coming,’ I say. ‘It’s an unforgivable sin I’ve been living with. I need to get it out.’

  ‘Don’t you worry, Donald John. My chair is comfortable and the fire is fine. You’ll see if I start nodding off.’

  How will I be able to tell him the truth? That I loved another woman. That I have lived a lie? What will he think of me?

  I take a deep breath and tell him everything. How Linde saved my life, about our blossoming friendship as I walked her and Anja to the camp, my attraction to her which I failed to conceal, my conflicting emotions, knowing that she was my prisoner and yet wanting more from her.

  ‘Archbishop, I wanted Linde and had every intention of being intimate with her.’

  I pause, but the Archbishop’s expression is inscrutable. ‘I’ve been consumed with guilt ever since. I didn’t commit adultery but I told her I loved her. And I did. I truly felt a passion that I had never known. I sought ways for us and the child to escape together. She’s the reason I stayed longer out there and didn’t return to Morag and the children.’

  ‘Do you know where she is now?’

  I close my eyes. My mind and body seem to be shutting down, but I gather my strength and blurt out, ‘She’s dead. Drowned. My blatant feelings for her, which had been obvious for all to see, and my visits to the camp labelled her a traitor . . . and for that she was murdered . . . by the other women.’ My voice drops to a whisper. ‘Or perhaps she was murdered by me. I feel a great sense of guilt that I am to blame. Let God decide.’

  I have been talking for ages and I am as weak as a child now. But I have, at last, made my confession. ‘Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.’

  I wait for the Archbishop’s reaction. He does not seem shocked; I expect he has heard much worse in his fifty years of hearing confessions.

  He looks me straight in the eye and with great clarity and warmth utters these words: ‘I don’t judge you, Donald John; that is for God to do. But I am able to forgive your sins in Our Lord’s name.’

  Immediately, I am filled with a profound sense of relief and peace. We say an Act of Contrition together and he instructs me to say the Rosary tomorrow, when I have a quiet moment. I wonder whether I should tell Morag about Linde after all. But our prayer together is my last recollection as I fall into a deep sleep.

  Chapter 33

  Donald John, South Africa, 1901

  The following days were grim – a whirlwind of emotions. I’d escaped a court-martial, but I blamed myself for Linde’s death, and Anja was now an orphan. It was the worst time of my life, compounded by constant skirmishes with the enemy, mammoth back-breaking rides and endless rain.

  We’d been on patrol for several days and were camped up at Quaagafontein, about eight miles from Zastron. Everyone was exhausted and ready to head back to Aliwal. I remember the date as the nineteenth of September, because it was Sheena’s birthday. (Morag never let the occasion pass without a cake and a candle and a toast to our daughter in Canada. I wondered if she’d been able to buy some flour and sugar.) It had been pouring constantly, but that night the skies had cleared a little, and it was bitterly cold.

  The solitary sentry post was up on a bushy knoll some two hundred yards from our camp. I was on duty with young Christie from nine until eleven. It was almost ghostly as we stared at the pale moon in the ink-black sky.

  Just before change-over I was sure I heard the snap of a stick being broken. ‘Did you hear that, Christie?’ I whispered.

  Christie had heard nothing. I listened carefully for a few more seconds, but there was only silence. Shortly afterwards we were relieved by our replacements and turned in.

  I woke with a start to the sound of gunfire and chaos. Groggy from deep sleep, I stumbled from my tent with my rifle. I saw with horror that the tents pitched closer to the hill were having volley after volley poured into them. I caught glimpses of the Boer as they reloaded and fired again and again. The noise and sensation were overwhelming. I shouted for the others to hurry, trying to be heard over the tremendous quantities of rifle shot, bullets passing amongst us, flashes in the darkness, the yells of the Dutch, the workers crying out, and Captain Semphill and the colonel barking orders. Panic-stricken horses and mules were now galloping wildly amongst us, having broken free from their halters. It was a truly hellish din, a combination of sounds that would haunt those of us who survived for years.

  There were three of us in a row, bootless, blinking in the dark as rifle flares blinded us and shadows seemed to emerge and then disappear on all sides. We didn’t know where the enemy was; every time I fired, I dreaded hitting one of our own. I recklessly risked a couple of shots but the Boer were right amongst us. McLennan was thrown back, his arm flung against mine as he went down; he’d been shot in the face from only yards away. Christie staggered past, clutching his chest, and collapsed, crying out for his mother. Semphill was shouting, ‘Regroup! Regroup!’ from my left, trying to organise a counter-attack. Then, briefly, came the chatter of our Maxim as it got going, but it was immediately silenced.

  Munro and I decided to bolt towards Semphill, but as I went forward I heard a gasp. I turned around and he, too, was down. Then, stumbling over the rocks in my bare feet, I saw the flare from a gun and, somehow, just knew it was for me. There was a massive thump as the bullet hit my thigh, twisted me sideways and threw me on my side. The shot must have been fired from no more than ten yards away. I put my hand down and felt a gaping hole and the horrible, sticky sensation of blood pumping out. I jammed my hat over the gash and lay still.

  For a few minutes more, the battle raged all about me. Then the gunfire petered out and only the groans from the injured and excited chatter amongst our assailants could be heard. I tried to call out, but my mouth was as dry as sand; only a croak came. Paraffin lamps were being lit and the Boer were prowling around, checking who was injured. They scoured the camp, gathering everything they could lay their hands on: food, even our boots and watches.

  A light was shone in my face and I could just make out a perspiring lad, young enough to be my son, calling out to the others that this one was alive. He gave me some water.

  ‘Where are you from?’ he asked in perfect English.

  ‘Scotland . . . from the mountains in the north,’ I mumbled.

  He said he was Scottish, too, a MacDonald. He helped me into a comfortable position with my leg supported up on a rock and ripped up a shirt which he tied around my thigh to staunch the blood flow. He gave me a strip of biltong to grit my teeth into as he pulled bits of cloth out of my wound and bathed it.

  ‘Thank you, thank you,’ I murmured. I knew he was saving my life, that I would have bled to death. Did he really say he was Scottish? A MacDonald? Was I delirious? I asked him to repeat his name.

  ‘MacDonald,’ he said, ‘Dennis MacDonald.’

  I was astonished. I gripped his arm, and he moved his head close to mine to hear me. ‘I’m a MacDonald. We’re the same clan, probably from the same area of Scotland.’ I paused. ‘What the hell are you doing fighting for the Boer?’

  He started talking now. I had touched a sore point. He had been farming peacefully, keeping out of the war, but then the British arrived at his house and took his horses. A week later, more soldiers arrived and drove off his sheep and cattle. He immediately joined the Boer Commando to fight to get his property back.

  I repeated, ‘Dennis, Dennis MacDonald.’ I wouldn’t forget this man’s name.

  He shook
me by the hand and patted me on the shoulder. ‘Good luck,’ he said. ‘I hope you make it.’

  The Boer finally headed off with as many of the horses as they could round up, our Armstrong gun and large quantities of ammunition. I remember the sound of wild dogs howling in the distance and wondered if they would be brave enough to come into the camp. There were groans and occasional words from others. I doubted they’d found a saviour as attentive as Dennis MacDonald to patch them up. My wound throbbed terribly; in the dark I couldn’t see if it was still bleeding but I could feel that it was an awful, sticky mess down there.

  The night dragged on. I kept thinking I was having a nightmare and would wake up with a feeling of relief, but it was not to be. How could things have gone so badly? Had the sentries fallen asleep? Why, in God’s name, was there only one sentry post instead of the normal three?

  So many in my regiment were dead: it had been a bloodbath. Thirteen Lovat Scouts and seven members of the Artillery had been killed in the attack; their bodies were left at Quaagafontein to be buried there.

  Some of our men must have sped off to find Lord Lovat. He and his squadron had been camped several miles away, and they arrived at dawn, followed by the Connaught Rangers and the medical team. Unfortunately, the medics had no morphine with them; it was in short supply here and was only available in hospitals. There followed a painful journey for the survivors to Aliwal North although I remembered little of it as I was, mercifully, unconscious for most of it.

  The Indian medics were skilled and caring. They insisted I drink water and sup bowls of liquidised mealies, and watched intently to make sure I did so. There were four of us in the wagon when we set off, but two died on the way to Aliwal and were buried out in the veld. I overheard an Irish soldier calling the convoy ‘the train of death’.

  My mind was on my family all the time. I was determined to live, to get home, although I realised with a crushing sadness what a burden I would be, a cripple for the rest of my days. I had wondered if my wife would stay with me more than a few times recently, and now I would be completely useless. If word got back to her about Linde from Scouts who had returned with the First Contingent then she’d be off to Arisaig before I got home. And who would blame her? But Morag was resilient. She was strong, kind, capable. I prayed that she would do everything she could to hold things together. I thought of Linde, too, but tried to blank that out and think instead of the young girl and her future. Surely Mrs Fawcett would fulfil her promise?

  It was the evening before we were due to reach the camp. The mules had been taken out of their traces, and I could hear the canteen workers preparing dinner. An Indian medic was bathing my wound with an iodine and alcohol mixture, which stung like hell. He was gentle and apologetic throughout the procedure. ‘Sorry, sahib, sorry, sahib,’ he said over and over.

  It must have been his tenderness and kindness that set me off because I began to cry like a baby. My body, curled up on its side, shook with convulsions and tears streamed down my face, soaking the rolled-up jacket that had been placed under my head. The trauma of the last few weeks had made me vulnerable. The hideous images in my head of Linde drowning, Anja, alone, fighting for her life, Morag shouting at me, rejecting me, my leg rotting – everything was whirling around my mind.

  It was all over in ten minutes. The medic fussed over me, hugely concerned that he was the cause of my grief. I wiped my eyes and reassured him. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m just overcome with . . . everything.’

  We arrived at the army hospital at dawn. The artery wasn’t bleeding, the doctors decided, but they were worried about releasing the tourniquet. The Boer MacDonald had done a good job. It was clear to them that my leg had been completely destroyed and they would have to amputate. They gave me a massive dose of morphine before the surgery, but I remained conscious. I fought wildly with the medics holding me down as I heard the rasp of the saw cutting through my thighbone.

  The operation to remove my leg didn’t go well and infection quickly set in. The stump was festering and the doctor was worried I’d get gangrene. My temperature rocketed, and I was delirious, constantly bathed in sweat, as weak as a kitten. Random images flitted across my mind: Morag cradling a lamb, the old Boer farmer’s contorted face as he squeezed the trigger, Linde’s pale blue eyes, dead children, row upon row of bell tents and burning farms.

  Lieutenant Kenny Macdonald was in and out of the medical station constantly, having promised the captain he’d look after me, and, seeing my rapidly worsening state, took it upon himself to get me on a hospital train to Cape Town. The Connaught Rangers priest was summoned and I was given the last rites before I went. I was barely aware of the Holy Water being sprinkled on my face. I was oddly amused by this, feeling as though my mind was completely detached from my body. I pictured myself being lowered into a grave and stones being piled up as the priest led prayers. Lieutenant Macdonald said he would write to the captain right away, telling him what had happened. He departed with some comforting words about meeting me at the Highland Games in Portree to keep my spirits up.

  I was stretchered onto the train and we set off for Cape Town. The young officer accompanying me seemed convinced I would die on the journey and jotted down Morag’s details in his notebook. I pictured a War Office clerk at his desk in London typing his tenth standard twoline telegram of the day, informing yet another widow that her husband had fallen bravely in action and offering her condolences.

  But I survived, and two days later, with the benefit of a telegram in advance and an introductory letter from Lieutenant Macdonald, I found myself aboard Bullough’s Rhouma and receiving the best of care in comfortable surroundings. There was a doctor on board, who had access to plenty of medicine that was not available to the rest of the Army, and after a rough week, I realised I was beginning to make a strong recovery. I thought of the poor blighters in their understaffed and poorly equipped hospital tents as I sat in a deckchair overlooking Table Mountain, liveried crew members bringing me lemonade. Two lovely nurses helped me to get used to my crutches, and after a further two weeks I was growing pretty nimble and could hobble around the deck unaided. But it was another two months before I was declared strong enough to travel home. I secured a berth on the HMS St Andrew, was taken back to Glasgow, and then put on the train home to Lochailort.

  Morag and the children met me in Fort William. I was nervous about seeing her, but her unhappiness about my staying out seemed to have been swept aside as she took control of the situation, in her inimitable way. She was onto the train and into my sleeper cabin in seconds, sitting on the bunk and taking me in her arms.

  ‘I’m so glad to see you, my dear,’ she whispered, ‘to be taking you home. I’ve been counting the moments.’ She stroked my hair. It was she who was crying now.

  On hearing these words my spirits soared. I began to believe that everything was going to be all right.

  Captain MacDonald was there, too, with my friends from the First Contingent. He’d organised a welcoming party and we processed to the Station Hotel for lunch. The captain and I had a quiet moment together. He took me aside and told me, with that wry smile of his, to put my best foot forward. Then he leant forward and whispered, ‘And never a word about the girl, not a word. Leave all that in South Africa.’

  Later, Morag and I sat together, holding hands and talking of many things, trivial and otherwise, on the train to Lochailort. She admitted she had been nervous, even frightened of having me back, and of what our life ahead had in store. ‘Reading your letters,’ she admitted, ‘I could tell you weren’t the man I’d said goodbye to.’

  Squeezing her hand, I looked her in the eye and said, ‘I’m back with you now, darling. For good.’

  Chapter 34

  Donald John, Ardnish, 1944

  I awake, last of the household, to hear Morag quizzing the Archbishop. Is he all right? Did you finish your conversation?

  The Archbishop is evading the stream of questions and trying to catch my eye. ‘Mornin
g, Donald John. Rested, are we?’

  I nod, relieved with the unburdening of the night before. ‘Feeling quite strong, actually,’ I reply. It’s true; I feel a strange calm now, and the pain in my chest has abated.

  Angus comes in and announces, ‘Your cow’s gone, Mother. I can see her hoof prints in the snow. Heading over to Laggan, I reckon. Shall I go and find her after breakfast?’

  There is a lengthy, convoluted conversation among them all. The Archbishop needs to catch the train at eleven thirty, so Louise and Angus will go with him and then get some provisions from ‘Angie the shop’ at Polnish, and Morag will retrieve the wayward cow. Mairi will be weaving next door but promises to drop in from time to time. Broch will keep me company.

  Morag is wrestling with leaving me, but I know she wants to get outside, and of course she needs to get the cow. I reassure them I’ll be fine on my own, that they should all take the chance of some fresh air.

  Morag looks relieved. ‘Angus, will you get the pony saddled up? The Archbishop can ride him as far as the landslide and we can load him up on the return.’

  There’s a bustle in the house as tea is brought over to me and the others dig out boots and hats and scarves and gloves. They talk about the change in the weather and how they hope it will hold for the day.

  The Archbishop and I shake hands and, a bit gushingly, I thank him for coming. Both of us have tears in our eyes; we know it’s the last time we will meet.

  Finally, they are all gone. Peace, perfect peace.

  I lie back and doze, reflecting on my confession and savouring the sense of contentment it has given me, but suddenly Broch stands, her ears pricked. Someone is out there. I strain to hear.

  ‘Hello?’ I call out, my voice sounding hoarse. ‘Is that you, Mairi?’

  There is a faint tap on the door.

  ‘Come in,’ I say.

  The door opens, and there, framed in the doorway, is a woman. Tall, slim, with long, braided fair hair.