Interloper at Glencoe Page 10

  “Ranald?” Nick couldn’t help giggling. “Ranald MacDonald?”

  “Aye.” Seòras’s eyes narrowed at him, and Nick straightened his face in a hurry.

  “So, your history goes back further than the fourteenth century.”

  “Indeed. And even to the high kings of Ireland.”

  Beth said, “Did ye know, Nick, this very glen is where Fionn MacCumhail lived and fought.” Nick had no clue who this MacCumhail was, but he tried to look impressed. She continued, “The glen is even called Glen Cu—Glen of Dogs—after the hounds of Fingal. The Feinn battled the Vikings where Achnacone now stands, and you can see traces of the cairns under which their leaders were buried.”

  “You mean that stack of stones near your uncle’s field?”

  “Aye, that’s the one I mean. The one he told ye to not bother in your work.”

  “So that cairn is a few hundred years old?”

  She looked up from her sewing, and nobody spoke. Nick knew he’d just said something unutterably stupid. “Close to two thousand years, more like.”

  Time yawned at Nick, and opened into a history that reached back to biblical days, but not in a biblical place, and he realized how narrow his thinking had been. As Eòsaph started in with a tale about how this ancient hero had sweet-talked the Vikings into waiting around for his Fionnaidh to return from hunting to beat the crap out of the invaders, Nick listened with intense interest to the history of this glen. It was Beth’s culture, and now he began to see her as more than just a barefoot girl with a pretty smile. And he realized this story and the others he’d heard during his stay could give him insight into who she was. The evening passed quickly, and Nick was sorry when Eòsaph and Anna rose to leave.

  The next day the storm moved on and the snow began to melt from the brae, but still nobody was inclined to work. Nick asked around, and received only an invitation to play something called “shinty.” Seòras called it “the sport of the curved stick.” Some men of Inverrigan faced off on the field outside the white house against a bunch of guys from the village of Achtriachtan up the glen. Some of them dropped their kilts to play in their shirts and trews, but most kept their kilts on and Nick figured he would, too. It was a dastardly cold day. He was handed a well-battered stick that looked like a hockey reject, and they were off.

  Before Nick could even get a grip on the rules, he was whacked twice across the shoulders by someone he couldn’t see. Nobody else saw it, either, or didn’t care, and they all played on. Nick kept his mouth shut and hung back a little to see how this was supposed to be played.

  It turned out to be sort of like hockey, sort of like lacrosse, and sort of like open warfare. The sticks were for knocking around a wooden ball about the size of a tennis ball, and the objective seemed to be to make the thing go between a couple of burnt-out torches stuck into the ground at each end of the field. The field was long, nearly two hundred yards, and the running back and forth never seemed to stop. Guys attacked each other to get the ball, scooped it from the ground, and passed it overhead. Sometimes a player ran with it balanced on the curve of his stick. There didn’t seem to be a rule about clobbering the other players with the sticks, and once Nick decided he knew enough to play, he was hit across a shin for returning to the fray. It probably was no coincidence the guy who hit him was Gòrdan, playing for Achtriachtan though he lived closer to Inverrigan. Nick ignored it and kept running after the ball.

  He never did get to it, though. Nobody passed to the new guy, and the one time he was in a position to intercept a pass from the other team he missed with his stick. Rest only came when a goal was made and the players walked slowly to the middle of the field for another face-off. Nick’s lungs felt on fire, gulping the cold. Playing football once every few weeks had done little to prepare him for the constant running in this game. Now he wished he’d played soccer instead, but figured even that wasn’t as intense as this. He heaved for huge gasps of winter-sharp air, and kept up as best he could.

  Achtriachtan won that day, and Nick couldn’t help agreeing with the Inverrigan players they had a weak side because of the French colonist who knew little of the game. Nick handed back the borrowed stick and wondered idly if he could teach these guys American football.

  Nah. They would either be bored stiff with that, or else spend all their time sacking the quarterback and never mind the ball.

  The MacDonalds of Glencoe continued to await the return of their laird. Nick, having read the brief account of what had happened—what was happening now—knew the MacIain was delayed by weather. That storm that had passed through just after New Year’s was what had kept him long enough to put him in violation of the king’s order. As each day passed, Nick realized he’d been holding out an impossible hope something had changed, but day after day passed and the MacIain didn’t appear. After a while, Nick began to feel stupid for his hope.

  Finally about two weeks after Nick’s return from the future, the MacIain returned from his journey. Nick and the rest of Inverrigan knew very shortly after the laird had ridden into Carnoch, for a boy runner came to shout the news up the Glen. Their laird was safe, and that meant the clan would be also. Nick wished it were true, but knew events weren’t that easily altered. That evening he went with the household of Seòras to the céilidh where the laird reported on his journey, to see if anything had changed from the accounts he’d read.

  The clan was packed into the white house with barely enough room to breathe. Perched on a bench between Seòras and Dùghall, Nick looked around at the bright, eager faces around him. They had no clue of what was ahead. They all thought the danger was past and there would be peace between the Dhomhnallach and the king. They all seemed glad the question of loyalty to King James was settled. Nick’s heart was heavy, and the only thing he was glad of was that it was warm in here.

  The laird told his story in Gaelic, and Seòras translated for Nick in a low voice next to his ear. It seemed when the MacIain went to sign the oath, he headed for the wrong government office. Inverlochy wasn’t far from Glencoe, so naturally the laird went to the garrison there and arrived in plenty of time to sign to the king’s satisfaction. Except for one thing: the order demanded the oath be taken before a civil officer, and John Hill, the military governor of Fort William, did not have the powers of a civil magistrate. The MacIain was forced to leave the garrison and make his way to Inverary, to take the oath in Argyll before a Campbell.

  A dire murmur moved through the crowd of rapt listeners. Campbell. Even Nick knew this was bad.

  Wasting no time, the laird left Fort William in the midst of bad weather. The heavy snows of late made travel difficult. He was unable to cross directly over the mountainous territory, and so had to take the longer route by the loch shore. A blizzard swept in and the laird and his gillies were slowed till they could cover no more than one mile in an hour. Across Loch Creran, they were arrested by Redcoats who paid no attention to the letter of safe passage given to the MacIain by John Hill, and taken to Barcaldine Castle. There the laird spent the night in a garderobe—which Seòras explained to Nick was a narrow latrine—and not let go until the next day. The deadline had passed during the night. When they finally arrived at Inverary, they found the magistrate gone. Already late taking the oath, the Glencoe laird now found himself in the right place but with nobody to administer it.

  Deep in Campbell territory, protected only by the letter from Hill, MacIain and his escort found quarters to await the return of the magistrate. He knew he was in violation, and that it would mean forfeiture of his estates and name—the people of Glencoe would all become homeless and destitute if he were arrested and went unpardoned for participation in the recent uprising.

  It wasn’t until the fifth of January that the magistrate, Sir Colin Campbell, returned, and the man very nearly declined to administer the oath. It was too late, he said. But, being a sensible man, he finally saw his way clear that it could be done to satisfy the king’s order, and on the next day gave the oath to
the Glencoe laird.

  Now the gathered folk of Glencoe spoke among themselves, a hopeful murmur that all would be well and that all involved were sensible men. The oath had been taken, and all else was irrelevant to the truth of the act. Alasdair MacDonald of Glencoe had given his word, and that should be sufficient for any man, even the Sasunnach king.

  One might think so, but Nick knew nothing had changed. Except for the greater detail, the story the laird told was not altered in the least from what Nick had read over the Internet, and now he wished he’d had the opportunity to read it before the laird left for Fort William. Perhaps if he’d been able to warn the MacIain to go to Inverary instead of Fort William, the oath would have been taken in time.

  But then, without the letter of safe passage he might have ended up arrested for much longer at Barcaldine Castle. And even if not, there was still that Sir Colin Campbell wouldn’t have returned to Inverary until the fifth. In Campbell country, perhaps MacIain might have even ended up dead. There was no telling.

  Nevertheless, Nick couldn’t stand to just sit there and listen to the clansmen reassure each other the issue was closed. Knowing what he knew, the behavior of the clan seemed insanity. Now was his chance to change history. He stood and addressed the laird.

  “Sir!”

  The crowd fell silent, and a few snickered. Nick realized the form of address he’d used was incorrect, that the laird was not knighted and so should not be called “sir,” but just then he didn’t care. He continued, “I think the situation is not as settled as you believe.”

  In his chair the laird drew himself up to his considerable height, and though the glint of challenge was in his eye he seemed willing to listen to what their allamharachd visitor might have to say. “Why is that?”

  “I seriously believe you’ve underestimated the willingness of certain men to take advantage of your predicament.”

  “You think I dinnae understand my enemy Breadalbane?” A hint of ridicule colored his voice, and a few in the room chuckled.

  Nick quickly sifted through what he’d read about the history, and knew Breadalbane was not the key anymore. Though the Campbell laird had been instrumental in setting them all on this path, it was now someone else who would press the issue to make it deadly. “No. Dalrymple. Secretary of State. And it’s not because you don’t understand him, but because he doesn’t understand you. This thing will turn on legalities, just as it already has. You weren’t permitted to take the oath at Fort William, on the technicality that the governor didn’t have appropriate powers. I don’t think the men who hate you are going to be all that sanguine about the oath being taken after the deadline.”

  “Deadline?”

  “Uh...” Nick blinked as he reached for a less modern word, “Time limit. I think they’re going to be thrilled this happened to you, and they’re going to take full advantage of it.”

  “Naught has happened to other MacDonald lairds, who are far more hated and have yet even now to take the oath.” Glengarry. The guy holed up in his castle, acting like he was at the Alamo. If not for him, would MacIain have taken his own situation more seriously?

  Again Nick poked through his scant knowledge of the political situation and pulled a reply out of his hat. “I’m sure the Crown would prefer to pick on the smaller clan of poorer people who live in this glen.” He had no idea if this was true. All he knew for certain was that this clan was the one who would be attacked.

  There was some whispering among the onlookers as the laird considered his words. Nick had no clue what they were saying, until MacIain glanced around and said to him, “Ye think the clan is weak? Ye think we cannae hold our own against our enemies?”

  “I think it should be unnecessary to fight. Go to Edinburgh. Go personally to Dalrymple and make your case to him. Face him, and show him that the rising is truly over and that the king will have no more trouble from this corner of the Highlands.”

  A tight smile came to the laird’s face, and Nick’s heart sank. In MacIain’s eyes was a light of defiance that said, for whatever reason, the suggestion wasn’t even being considered. MacIain said, “I should go crawling on my belly? Beg to be taken for a man of honor?” That brought a great laugh among those who spoke English. “Dalrymple should come to me and thank me for taking the oath at all.”

  The laird’s son, Alasdair Og, said something in Gaelic, which brought another long, rolling laugh. The sarcasm was thick in his voice, and Nick’s ears warmed in spite of his lack of the language.

  The laird said, “I believe we’ll stand fast, young man. Hold our glen like men, and if the soldiers come to arrest me they will take back a bloodied stump of an arm.”

  “Please listen to me, sir.”

  “That will be enough. The subject is closed.”

  Nick tried to speak again, but Seòras snagged his shirt and yanked him back onto the bench. The discussion was over. Nick had lost. Panic rose, and he rubbed his chin hard as images of a soldier attacking Beth swarmed in his head. His chest tightened as he tried to come up with an idea of what to do and there was nothing.

  Walking back to Seòras’s house, the old man tugged his coat and plaid around him against the cold as he said to Nick, “Ye should not have spoken to the laird in that manner.”

  “I had to. It’s a mistake to think this is over.”

  “And what do ye know of it? Have you special knowledge? Are ye close with Dalrymple, then, and might you be here on his behalf?”

  Nick threw him a cross look. “Of course not. I’m just trying to help; otherwise I wouldn’t have said anything, and let the laird make his mistake.”

  “He doesnae need your help. He’s led the clan for decades, and through far worse times than these. He’s kept us fed and alive despite interference from Breadalbane and all the other high-handed Campbells. He’ll continue to lead us and keep us safe, until the day he dies. Then his son will continue. As it’s been since there were Scots in this land.”

  Nick considered the irony that what Seòras said was absolutely true. MacIain would lead the clan until the night of the massacre, when he would die. His name had been first on the casualty list.

  Seòras walked in silence a ways, then without looking over at Nick said, “If ye continue to press him over the matter, I’ll be forced to ask you to leave my home. I cannae have ye behaving so shamefully as a member of my household.”

  “I was only trying—”

  “The laird cannae lie down before Dalrymple. Nor any man. And it bespeaks the poverty of your own manhood to think he could.”

  “It’s the rigid standard he lives by that has caused this mess. He waited too long to go, and now the law has been broken and he can’t fix it. Not without admitting very publicly he made a mistake.”

  “’Twas no mistake. ’Twas only what he could do.”

  “Not good enough. And it’s going to get people killed.”

  Seòras stopped walking and turned to Nick. “You cannae know—”

  “I know.” Nick leaned in and lowered his voice. “Just trust me, I know. It will end badly, and it will be the fault of those who didn’t see it coming. It will be a horrible tragedy for everyone involved, even the Campbells, and it might have been avoided if not for the stubbornness of MacIain of Glencoe.”

  “He’s a good man.”

  “He’s an excellent man. A strong leader, honorable, caring, and he’s going to be dead in a few weeks.” A frown crossed Seòras’s face and Nick added quickly, “I’m sure of it.”

  Seòras turned his attention to the track before him, revealed only by the flickering of the candle lantern Beth carried, and they continued on their way. “All will be well.”

  Nick wanted to let this drop, for he wearied of the argument, but he said in a low, angry voice, “No. It won’t.”

  Over the next few days, Nick worked at his odd jobs with an eye toward figuring out how to stop this terrible thing.

  The weather worsened, and snow on the surrounding mountains came to stay. H
ard work in these temperatures was tough. Exhausting and dangerously cold, it challenged Nick’s ability to keep up with the much hardier Scots around him. He felt Dùghall’s eyes on him, but the “gillie” references finally stopped and didn’t return.

  Meanwhile, he kept an eye out for whatever he might do to steer Beth from what awaited. But nothing presented itself. The laird felt he had done all he could to comply with the king’s order, and no soldiers had yet presented themselves in the glen. In the face of history, Nick was as powerless as the gillie the clan had thought he was. It began to appear he’d have to bide his time, and his apprehension grew.

  One day in mid-January Nick went into the woods to collect deadfall from a windstorm the night before. He had a garron harnessed, and when he found a good-sized log he tied the little horse to it and guided it back to the dooryard of Seòras MacDonald. There he released the piece of torn tree from the horse’s harness, then manhandled his find to a more or less optimal spot for chopping later once the wood was dry and seasoned. The storm had been quite productive of fallen firewood, and there was much of it to find. Most households had someone out picking up dead trees, and with each trip Nick had to search farther afield to locate unclaimed wood.

  It was on his third trip into the forest by the river that Nick caught sight of a figure crouched in the crotch of one of the trees still standing, and he recognized the faerie man. The garron tossed its head, and shied, so Nick stopped short of the occupied tree and tied the animal before approaching.

  “How did ye make your way back?” said the faerie.

  Nick stopped walking, nonplussed. “Um... you sent me.” Probably.

  “I did not! I sent you away! Why would I ever bring you back? Do not lie to me, you human!”

  “It sure wasn’t that Campbell guy who did it.”

  “Which of the no-good Campbells would that be, then?”

  “William.”

  The creature heaved a great sigh of impatience and said, “Which of the no-good William Campbells would that be?”