The Last Sunset (9 page)

The old Highlander was instantly offended.
“Paying me… for my hospitality? Och, man, you do not pay for hospitality in the
house of a Highland chentleman.” He looked accusingly at Macsorley. “You are of
the
Gaidhealtacht
. You above all should know this.”

The young man flushed and looked accusingly at
his corporal.

“You should also know it is customary to address
a chentleman according to his place of residence. To friends and foe alike I am
known as
Achnacon
.” A guarded smile replaced his expression of
disapproval. “I trust
Achnacon
shares his bread with friends this day…?”

The soldiers were to learn that Achnacon of Glen
Laragain was by no means a wealthy man. Almost everything he and his family
owned, wore, or consumed was produced by their own hands. They lived well off
their land, however, and according to the Highland code of hospitality the
fruit of their labours was shared with all who entered their door. Their
visitors were treated to a meal of cheese, oatcakes, bannocks, smoked venison
and trout.

The lady of the house grew more at ease as her
guests accepted the unspoken bonds of her hospitality. Like her daughters she
was dark haired, her features strong and forceful. There was an air of simple
dignity about her that had her young guests falling over themselves to show off
their manners. All, that is, except Rae, who acted like an automaton, dumbly
accepting everything he was offered.

The demure Ishbel remained in the background,
ignoring every attempt at eye contact. Shona, the younger daughter, quickly
ensconced herself amongst the company. She was ferociously inquisitive and
tormented Macsorley with a barrage of unanswerable questions.

The master of the house chatted lightly to them
about this and that, gently trying to cast some light on this mystery which had
manifested itself within his
tigh dubh
. Ultimately Achnacon steered the
conversation around to events taking place beyond Glen Laragain:

“A queer business this uprising, is it not? Many
of the young men gone from the hills to fight for Prince Tchearlach… others to
fight for King Cheorge…” His gaze flicked over the faces of his guests. “Many
an honest man will lose all ere this business is finished, I am thinking,
whichever royal backside sits on the throne of England…”

“Aye, that’s right enough,” Macmillan murmured
noncommittally.

Shona had discovered the zip fastener on
Macsorley’s combat jacket, and was giggling with delight at this wonderful new
toy.

“Some say Locheil and Keppoch will return to
Lochaber to lay siege once more to the black garrison. Others say they have
gone to Inverness to do battle with the Chuke’s army…”

Macmillan looked to his troops in a silent
appeal for help. They all sat by the smoky warmth of Achnacon’s hearth,
ensnared in the sweet trap of his debt, yet the N.C.O. had no idea what tack he
should take.

Macsorley had no such problems: “It’s like you
said earlier, er, Achnacon, none of us here are King George’s men. As far as
Ah’m concerned the Hanoverians are a bunch of murdering animals. Pardon ma
language and all that…”

The old Highlander nodded warily. “Aye, chust
so, chust so.” He looked at the N.C.O. “And yourself, Corporal Andy? Are you a
Prince’s man, or a Chuke’s man? Or does yourself belong to no man whatever?”

Macmillan squirmed in his seat of heather and
straw. “Ah don’t know… Ah mean… What tae make of it all…”

Macsorley cut in, diplomacy thrown to the wind:
“This cannae be an accident, Corp. We’ve all had time to think about it.
Whatever happened to us has happened for a purpose.”

Achnacon leaned forward in sudden interest.
“And, ah, what might this purpose be?”

Macmillan glared at the young soldier. Ferguson
looked as though he was about to offer his diplomatic skills, forcing the
corporal to bite the bullet.

“Ah remember, er, years ago it was, reading how
a lot of Macdonalds were saved during the Glencoe massacre by Campbell soldiers
who’d been billeted with them. It seems a lot o’ them passed on the warning of
what was about tae happen. They say that’s why only thirty-six people died,
instead of the whole three hundred they’d intended tae kill.”

Their host regarded the young corporal warily.
“Aye, this is indeed so. But why speak of this now? Surely you do not think
such a scheme has been hatched against ourselfs?”

Macmillan nodded, grateful he’d not had to
labour the point.

“The Hanoverians are gonnae do tae Glen Laragain
what the Campbell soldiers did tae Glencoe,” he said, more bluntly than he had
intended.

“What? But why would they do such a thing? In
God’s name to what end?” Without waiting for an answer Achnacon spoke urgently
to his family. Instantly the mood changed. Shona was called away from her new
friends and gathered into her mother’s arms.

The Highlander was on his feet now, his eyes
flashing wildly. “Achnacon’s sword arm is as strong as ever it was, but I,
myself, am but one man. All the young warriors is away with Locheil and the
Prince. None is left but the old and infirm.”

Macmillan and his troops sat like men who’d lit
a candle and watched it turn to dynamite.

“And yourself, Corporal Andy. Have you come to
betray the hospitality of Achnacon as the Campbells betrayed Glencoe?”

Macmillan was in desperate need of some higher
authority to take control of the situation and return him to his rightful place
within a clear chain of command.

Macsorley rose impassionedly to his feet. “No
one here’s gonnae betray you, Achnacon. We’ll stand with you.”

“Ah’m up for that,” said Rae.

“We’ll do
what
?” blustered Macmillan.

“…Ah’ve figured out what’s going on here,”
Ferguson suddenly announced. “Ah think we were hand-picked for this. Ah think
the army has us on some kindae special mission.”

“What are you
on
about?” Macmillan
growled irritably.

“Well, think about it. We all
just happen
tae be in the glen on a live-firing exercise, then we
just happen
tae be
around when that mist with all thae things in it comes down, and then we
just
happen
tae be in the area when there’s yon big flash in the sky… Well…?
Don’t you see what Ah’m getting at?”

“Aw Gawd, Ah cannae wait….”

“The army’s been experimenting with time travel.
We’ve been specially selected and then sent back tae prevent the massacre. It’s
obvious when ye think about it.” There was an expression of pure triumph on his
face.

“Aw you great dumplin’ that you are,” Rae
snarled. “The British Army has sent us back in time tae fight the British Army?”

A shadow of doubt ruffled the bliss on
Ferguson’s face. “Aye, Ah wasn’t quite sure about that bit right enough.”

Macmillan was relieved to see Achnacon’s
bewilderment. Not all of Private Ferguson’s revelations were lost on the old
clansman, however.

“You speak again of massacre, as if you have
witnessed this terrible deed that is yet to be. You must say what you know,
Corporal Andy…”

“It happens in the mist,” Macsorley cut in
before his corporal could reply. “Don’t know the time o’ day. A full company of
infantry is deployed and when they come they move through the glen using just
the bayonet, so there’s no warning. None o’ the men are to be left alive. Glen
Laragain is to be laid waste from east to west…”

The blood drained from Achnacon’s face. “And
when is this… this crime to take place?” he whispered.

“The twenty-first of April.”

A long sigh escaped the old Highlander’s lips.
“’Tis as I had feared… our warriors have proved too slippery for them, so they
seek to punish the old and the helpless.” He turned to Macmillan. “Our enemy
seeks to extirpate the people of Glen Laragain. However we have eleven days
grace. The lassies and bairns can be got to the shielings until the business is
done. All who can will stand. And what of yourself, Corporal Andy? Will you stand
with your men? With Achnacon?”

Macmillan shook his head in defeat. “Don’t have
much choice, do Ah?” He rounded on his jubilant troops. “But we don’t replace
one massacre with another. We do as little as it takes tae stop it happening,
right?”

“Aye, sure, you’re the boss,” Rae murmured
evasively.

“Yourselfs will all stand with me then?” The
Highlander’s eyes reflected the flicker of the peat flame. One by one he
grasped the hands of his newfound comrades. “On the morrow we shall speak to
all the people. You may tell them what you have told myself.”

He spoke briefly to his wife, and moments later
she reappeared with a large earthenware jug, which Achnacon lifted to his mouth
with practised ease. Gasping with raw pleasure he passed the jar to Macmillan,
who made the mistake of imitating his host. Immediately he felt a volcano erupt
in his mouth, spewing lava throughout his digestive system.

“In the name of God,” he wheezed, “what is
that?”

“’Tis my own brew; the water of life, three-times
distilled.”

Achnacon’s home-brewed whisky drew much the same
reaction from the rest of the troops. None of them could have been more
impressed if he’d turned water to wine before their eyes.

As the pyroclastic fires slowly subsided within
him Macmillan decided to retain control of his wits and leave the drinking to
the others. He’d become aware of the dark eyes of his hostess burning into his
own. There was more than mistrust there; Macmillan had the impression he was
being given a dark and terrible warning.

In that moment he discovered something about
clan society that he’d never learnt from any history book.

“Corpohral!
Corpohral
!”

Macmillan did his best to focus on the two faces
leaning over him.

“Corpohral Auntie!”

Someone was tugging at his sleeve. The faces
were familiar… Isabel… No, Ishbel… Ishbel and Shona! The memory of Achnacon,
his black house, and his deadly
uisge beatha
hit him like a rush of cold
water.

Ishbel continued to pull at his sleeve as he sat
upright. He had no idea if he’d been asleep for minutes or hours. He remembered
allowing himself one more swallow of Achnacon’s firewater, and then watching in
drowsy detachment as his comrades degenerated into a drunken rabble.

In one corner Rae and Ferguson were sprawled
together on one of the beds. Achnacon’s wife was trying to rouse her husband
from his chair by the hearth. He’d last seen Macsorley dressed in one of
Achnacon’s phillamhors.

Macmillan became aware of the fear on the faces
of the two girls. Before he could utter a word one of Ishbel’s fingers was
pressed firmly against his lips.

“Sssshhh.” She whispered so softly the sound was
barely audible.

She waited until she was satisfied Macmillan
understood, before leading him to the window of the cottage, her bare feet
hardly touching the carpet of straw as she tip-toed before him. Young Shona
brought up the rear, cradling Macmillan’s rifle in her arms, a native
accompanying a tiger shoot in the Punjab.

Ishbel crouched by the window, a flush of fear
and excitement in her cheeks. Again she whispered at Macmillan; one of the few
English words she’d learnt:

“Sholdiers…”

The corporal’s eyes widened in alarm. He looked
through the small square opening into the mist beyond, but could see nothing of
any significance. No colour, no movement. Only the grey shapes of neighbouring
cottages, like ships adrift in an ocean fog.

“Where? There’s no one…”

“Sssshhh!” the sisters hissed together, both
glaring at him as if he were an imbecile.

Macmillan withered under their gaze. Where was
Macsorley when he needed him? “Macsorley?” he whispered. “Where is Macsorley?”

The girls made it clear this was no time for
idle chitchat. Frantically Ishbel tugged at her ears and pointed to the west.
Macmillan wondered if they’d been so terrified by all the talk of slaughter and
massacre they’d panicked at the first sign of mist.

At that moment, far to the east, he heard what
sounded like gunfire. Not the high-pitched crack of high-velocity weapons, but
a series of thunderous reports, interspersed with sporadic single explosions. The
firing continued for about thirty seconds, then died away into silence.

Macmillan shook his head in stunned disbelief.
Achnacon had told them today was the tenth of April. He wondered if he’d
emerged from an eleven-day coma. A glance at his watch confirmed the date was
the tenth, the time seventeen-thirty.

Shona thrust the rifle into Macmillan’s hands,
as though she was handing a shovel to an idle workman. “Sholdiers,” she
whispered.

Macmillan tried to remember if he’d loaded with
ten or twenty rounds. Either way he would need more ammo. The webbing with the
spare mags was nowhere to be seen. He couldn’t remember if they’d been left in
the byre, or moved elsewhere. He held up the rifle and pointed to the byre.