The Last Sunset (14 page)

“…Lieutenant Longholme was specially chosen for
this mission because of his abiding hatred of the Highlanders. At the battle of
Prestonpans his face was so severely scarred by the cut of a Highland broadsword
that his betrothal to the daughter of the Duke of Beaufort…”

“…Was ended four weeks before they were to wed.”
The officer’s hoarse voice took up the tale. “Lieutenant Longholme’s face being
so ghastly to behold, his bride-to-be could not tolerate the very sight of it…”
He turned to face the woman, the pistol still levelled at her companion. “My
compliments, Madame; you ply your trade well. Truly you are the fairest spy
that ever I laid eyes upon. Perhaps ’tis you should be staring down this barrel…”

Shawnee went on, seemingly devoid of fear.

“The massacre of Glen Laragain was one of many
atrocities committed by the Hanoverian army at the end of the Jacobite
rebellion, but it was considered the worst. Lieutenant Longholme’s orders
carried the signature of the King’s third son; the Duke of Cumberland. However the
Duke would deny ever having issued the order. The officer commanding the
garrison at Fort William, Captain Scott, would also deny all knowledge of such
an order. During a later enquiry it would be claimed that the royal signature
had been forged by Lieutenant Longholme…”

The officer’s eyes widened. “What treachery is
this…?”

“…Within six months of the massacre, Lieutenant
Longholme would be court-martialled, not for his part in the operation, but for
daring to suggest that a son of the monarch could have issued such an order. He
would be reduced to the ranks and transferred to garrison duty in the West
Indies…”

The officer had now swung around, his pistol
pointing at the woman. “You think to unnerve me by these foul lies, by God…”

“…It is believed by some that he died there, a
broken man. Other sources claim he would reappear thirty years later, under a
different name, as one of the prime movers in the events which led to the
American war of independence…”

“…American war…?”

“…What is certain is that Lieutenant Longholme
would never return to England again following his exile in November, seventeen
forty-six.”

Shawnee’s voice died away into a deafening
silence. Sam could see the officer’s chest rise and fall as he struggled to
absorb what he’d heard. He watched as the pistol dropped to the ground. When
the silence was finally broken it was not by Lieutenant Longholme, nor by the
American couple, but by the red-coated underling.

“Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but the truth will be
easy got at…”

“Leave us!” the officer snapped.

“Sir?”

“At once! Damn it!”

With a horrible scowl in Sam’s direction the
soldier picked up his musket and slunk towards the door.

As soon as he was gone Longholme turned to face
his female prisoner.

“There are but three sets of eyes have witnessed
the orders for this day’s work. How could you possibly have known my orders
carried the royal signature?”

“It’s a matter of historical record.”

“Historical record…? What is this meant to convey;
that you have the power to perceive that which is yet to be?” He pointed
contemptuously at the Highland woman. “These people claim to possess such
power, but they are feeble-minded peasants who know no better…”

Shawnee could see the officer was beginning to
recover some of his arrogance. “You asked what we were doing in Glen Laragain
today, of all days? Well, you were correct. Our presence here on this
particular day was no coincidence. We travelled halfway around the world
specifically to visit the glen on the anniversary of your massacre…”

“The anniversary? What stuff and nonsense is
this?”

“On the two-hundred-and-eightieth anniversary,”
Shawnee added softly.

“By God, Mademoiselle, you excel in your work,”
Longholme blustered. “You spin these dark webs, by which you think to trap
honest soldiers in pursuit of their duty. Well, enough! While my mind is still
my own I will hear no more of this madness. Not one more word, by God…”

Shawnee defiantly threw the book on the table.
“Read it, if you got the courage. It’s not every man gets to see what posterity
thinks of him.”

Longholme involuntarily stepped backwards.
“T’will be something you have prepared to deceive my senses.”

“Yeah?” The woman picked up the book and held it
in the air, like a preacher delivering the word of God. “It’s called ‘The
Massacre Of Glen Laragain.’ Maybe I should get you to autograph the book. Hell,
you’re as much the author as the guy who wrote it.”

~*~

The officer could hear mumbles of approval from
the woman’s accomplice: “Way to go, Shawnee… Give’m both barrels…”

Lieutenant Longholme strode forward and took the
book from her. “Very well, I shall answer your deceit, for deceit I am sure it
will prove to be.”

His convictions remained intact only as long as
it took him to examine the front cover. Incorporated there, in strange glossy
colours, was an exceptionally life-like picture depicting a group of roofless
dwellings. The legend ‘
The Massacre Of Glen Laragain
’ was emblazoned in
garish letters over the vista. Inlaid within the scene was a tiny portrait,
which his eyes initially passed over. It was only when he’d carried the book
closer to the window that he realised he was looking at his own image.

Longholme recoiled as if he’d glimpsed the face
of Satan. The book fell to the floor, and for a moment he seemed about to join
it.

“This cannot be possible… A man of learning… prey
to such black witchery…”

The officer’s scar seemed to have sunk into the
grey lines of his face. He gaped beyond the cottage window, into the mist,
which was beginning to clear from the west.

“Shawnee!” Sam hissed. “C’mon over here and
untie me, quick as y’can…”

Shawnee turned to her companion. “Knife?” she
whispered, making a cutting motion with her hands. “D’you have a knife?”

The woman produced a small black dagger from
inside her shawl. “
Skian dhu
,” she explained.

Shawnee quickly discovered the Highlander’s
skian
dhu
was no ornamental weapon. In seconds Sam was free, the ropes falling
from him like party streamers.

“Oh, Sam,” she groaned, “what a God-awful mess they’ve
made of your face.”

Both his eyes were already beginning to turn
black; his nose was angry and swollen; his mouth looked as though he’d
encountered a psychotic dentist.

“’S alright,” he mumbled, as she helped him to
his feet, “y’shoulda seen the other guy…”

Shawnee smiled weakly. “Y’got nobody to blame
but your own stupid self.”

“I don’ get it…Whaddid I say wrong?”

“Edinburgh is on the east coast of Scotland, not
the west. But, worse than that, for Godsakes; Robert Bruce?”

“Yeah. You talked ’bout him once…”

“Robert Bruce had been dead more than four
hundred years. These people were fighting for Prince Charles Edward Stuart, son
of the exiled King James.”

Sam nodded at Longholme. “Guess he’d’ve known
that, huh?”

Shawnee shook her head in disgust. “Sam, there’s
plankton drifting off the Scottish coast knows more about this country than you
do…”

Sam laughed raspingly, even as he began to look
around, searching for some means of escape. The officer seemed to pose little
threat now, but beyond the door of the cottage his underling would be close by.

“Whaddabout the pistol?”

With a shock both of them realised the Highland
woman was standing barely ten feet from the officer, his own pistol pointed at
the back of his head. Perhaps sensing her presence, he slowly turned around.

“It appears you might be doing me a service,”
Longholme said softly. He towered imperiously over the woman, like a magistrate
over a ragamuffin.

“If it is myself that is ending your miserable
life it is for my people, and not to ease your suffering,” she hissed
vengefully.

“You speak English!” Shawnee exclaimed. Surprise
also appeared on the officer’s face.

“
Oui. Je parle Français, aussi
. It is
yourself is thinking we are no better than ignorant savages because the ancient
tongue of the Gael is beyond your understanding. But tell me now, sir, of the
two of us, who is it would be the most ignorant?”

“Very well, I stand corrected,” said Longholme
stiffly. “Clearly, you are neither ignorant nor a savage, but I will be damned
if I own that you and your tribe are anything other than Jacobites and rebels.”

“The young men of
Gleann Laragain
, my two
brothers among them, was called to arms by Locheil to fight for our lawful
prince…”

“Your lawful prince? You refer to the Jacobite
pretender to the throne. Your true
lawful prince
, the Duke of
Cumberland, approaches with an army to crush this damned rebellion in the name
of your lawful monarch; His Majesty, King George!”

“Cherman Cheorge is no friend to the Gael, sir.
We ask but to be left in peace. Instead we are surrounded by forts and
garrisons, full of red-coated ‘chentlemen’ like yourself; who may fall upon us
as they see fit, to murder and destroy.”

“These are military operations,” he replied
rigidly. “We are but soldiers, answering our orders.”

“And do your orders include the murder of
children, and the violation of innocent women?”

“You, Madam? Molested? I think not.”

“No, sir, not I. Perhaps your men thought me a
tid-bit to be safed for yourself. But the others… like beasts… on my mother… my
father forced to look on…” Tears poured down her cheeks. “You unleashed your
hounds upon us, sir. Did you expect they would wag their tails at us?”

“Madam, I assure you, such behaviour was never
intended…”

“You intended they should simply slaughter us
like animals… As they did my father… my mother… my brother, Donald, barely more
than a child…?” Her eyes sparkled with dark anger.

“My men were attacked. The youth possessed a
hidden dagger…”

“His only crime was to defend his mother from
your soldiers…”

“My orders, Madam… I was commanded to meet any
resistance with the utmost force…”

“You have done more than obey orders this day,
sir. It was said you was chosen because of your abiding hatred…”

The officer’s hand traced the red weal on his
face. “Clearly, Madam, I am damned whichever way I may turn, but beyond these
hills all civilised men will benefit in the peace that is to follow, once the
fever of rebellion is extinguished….”

The Highland woman moved closer to the officer,
her hands now trembling with the weight of the pistol. “You dare speak of
civilisation after what your people has done here this day?”

It was obvious the time for talking was over.

“C’mon, honey,” Shawnee said softly to the other
woman, “don’t stoop to their level.”

“I am Rhona Cameron, daughter of Ewen and
Elsbeth Cameron of Inverlaragain. Until this day I thought I was without a care
in the world. Now my only desire is to send you to your master in hell.”

Helplessly Sam and Shawnee watched as her finger
tightened on the trigger. The officer showed no surprise when the firing lock
struck the pan with a dull metallic click.

“The weapon was not loaded,” he explained. “
’Twas but a ploy, to loosen the gentleman’s tongue.”

For a moment, the woman seemed about to fling
herself at the officer. Instead her strength evaporated, and she sank to her
knees before him. Shawnee sprang to her side, her arms around her.

Sam turned to face Longholme’s retribution. But
instead of recalling his henchman the officer made his way to the table and
began to empty the backpacks.

“ ’Twas my mistake to leave the inspection of
your haversacks to that oaf of a corporal. The man would starve to death were
he not commanded to eat twice daily.”

His eyes lit up as one wonder after another
appeared on the table before him. He picked up Shawnee’s digital camera,
turning it this way and that. He shook it for a moment, before handing it to
Sam.

“Tell me, sir, what function does this device
perform?”

The American was in no mood to explain two
hundred and seventy years of scientific progress to this man.

“ ’S a camera,” he growled tersely. “Takes
pictures.”

The officer shook his head in confusion. “Please
demonstrate,” he commanded.

Sam pointed the camera at the officer. “ ’S
gonna flash. Y’know? There’s gonna be a bright light?”

“I warn you, sir, I am weary of trickery this
day…”

“Yeah. Yeah. Yeah.”

Sam pressed the shutter and Longholme recoiled
in shock, his hands to his eyes. By the time his eyesight had returned to
normal the camera had produced a perfect image of his face, frozen in mid-sentence.