The Rogues (20 page)

“Ye're over-canny with yer pennies, McInnes,” Dunbar said, gesturing at the purse. “Pick it up and pay yer due. Dinna worry, I willna take more than is owed.”

As the nervous man bent to pick up his money, my eyes flicked to his companion. Taking advantage of the distraction, Sinclair had slipped a stealthy hand inside his coat. What he was drawing out had the glint of sharpened steel.

“Dunbar!” I cried, jumping out of hiding.

At my shout the Rogue spotted the danger. He whipped his musket about, took a long stride forward, and cracked the butt hard across the bearded man's face, knocking him flat. McInnes abandoned his purse and had his hands in the air before Dunbar had even turned the gun on him.

The thin man blinked warily. “Ye've an accomplice now, I see.”

“An
apprentice
, if ye don't mind,” Dunbar corrected. “Before long, these hills will be full of wee rogues and it's Daniel McRoy who will be packing his bags.”

The bearded man lay groaning on the ground, a bloody bruise branded across his cheek.

“Help him up, McInnes, for I'll not give him a hand,” Dunbar ordered, his voice now like stone. The thin man helped his dazed comrade to his feet and they began to edge away.

“Drop yer steel and yer pistols first, then run back to yer master and tell him about the brave job ye've done. And if ye cross my path again, I'll not be so kind to ye.”

They did as he directed, and I stepped well aside to let them pass. They hurried away like frightened lambs.

Dunbar rubbed his grizzled jaw. “I can't abide folk trying to kill me,” he said, though there was a hint of laughter in his voice. “The French came close enough to put me off the notion for good.”

I smiled, feeling good about the part I'd just played. But Dunbar gave me no time for triumph.

“Ye think ye've done me a good deed, lad. But all ye've done is show our hand. Now they know yer with me, they'll guess it'll be easier to track me down. And so it will.” He looked over at his still. “Come on,” he said. “Help me break up this blasted thing and hide it. Sinclair will want to return for vengeance soon. And if those gowks are right about soldiers coming, we'd best be out of here. I'll no be serving drink to the king's men.”

IV. THE BLESSING

Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North
,

The birth-place of Valour, the country of Worth
;

Wherever I wander, wherever I rove
,

The hills of the Highlands for ever I love
.

—Robert Burns, “Farewell to the Highlands”

21 THE TALE OF WATERLOO

We hid the still in a rocky fissure miles from where we found it, covering it over with branches. It took us two trips before we were done. The Rogue carried the heavier pieces, and I carried a few of the pipes as well as his tools, though he kept the musket, already primed with its charge, in his hand, the two weapons of the other men stuck down in his belt and his knife in his stocking. Eventually the effort of keeping up with Dunbar's brisk march started to wear me out. I had fallen a good dozen paces behind when the Rogue paused to look back at me.

“Ye're not at yer full strength yet,” he said, not unkindly. “It willna hurt us to stop and catch a breath.”

We were heading back to the cave: I recognized the stone gully. I thought to protest and make a show of courage, but he silenced me with a wave of his hand.

“It's a bad general that marches his men beyond their endurance. It's nae more than a couple of days ago that ye were pounding at Death's door like a laird's factor come for the rent.”

I laughed at that, and Dunbar gave a thin smile. “I'm glad Death didna answer,” I said. “Maybe he's as deaf as old Tam Mackay.”

We got past the slatey walls of the gully and into the small wood, settling at last in the shade of a scrawny elm, its thin leaves enough to keep the fading sun off our faces. It looked to be mid-afternoon. My stomach told me it was well past time to eat.

I was relieved to see that our brush with danger had given Dunbar a thirst as great as my own. We drank deep from our canteens and shared the bread and cheese I'd packed.

“See that stream over there?” said the Rogue, gesturing toward a spur of rock jutting out of a nearby hillside. Indeed, I had missed it, but once he pointed it out, I could both see and hear the water flooding over stones. “We can get a refill there.”

I shook the last few drops of water into my mouth, then followed Dunbar around the hill.

The stream was narrow and rippling over a bed of colored pebbles. On the far side a ewe was lying on her side at the foot of a rocky slope. She was a stunted specimen, clearly not one of the laird's precious English Cheviots, and mewling pathetically to herself. As we approached, she tried to get up, but one of her forelegs gave way beneath her on the stony ground.

“She must have skidded down those rocks there and broken her leg,” said Dunbar, his sharp eyes catching the telltale signs of the animal's fall. He pointed to the scrape down the hill, and I looked at it carefully, promising myself to remember how it looked.

We crossed the stream slowly, not wishing to frighten the ewe any more than was necessary.

“She's been trying to crawl the rest of the way to the stream,” I said, and was pleased when Dunbar nodded.

“Aye—she must have been separated from the flock when they were driven off by the burning,” said Dunbar. “And a ewe makes a poor rogue when left to fend for herself.”

“Aye, they're liable to panic at the slightest thing, even at the best of times,” I agreed. “It's a shame to let her suffer.”

“That's soon taken care of,” said Dunbar, pulling his knife from his stocking. Kneeling down beside the miserable creature, he pulled her head back and in a quick, easy motion drew the blade cleanly across her throat. The sheep twitched a few moments as the blood gushed from her wound, then was still.

“No more pain for the sheep and a fine supper for us,” Dunbar said, hoisting her onto his shoulder. “This day's taken a better turn than I looked for.”

I filled both our canteens, and we were ready to continue on.

The thought of hot, juicy mutton put a fresh spring in my step. Even with Dunbar carrying the heavy sheep, our trek back to the Rogue's lair seemed to take only half the time as our outward journey had. Birds sang overhead with gusto, as if telling us we'd nothing to fear.

We walked through a stream to lose any possible trackers and stayed on the rocks as often as we could—harder going than walking in dirt but better to fool any followers, so Dunbar told me. And that was how we made our roguish way back to camp.

Once at the cave, Dunbar skinned the sheep and cut the meat into strips in half the time it would have taken me, farmer's son though I was. He fixed the joints of mutton to sticks, and we roasted them over a blazing peat fire inside the cave as soon as it was dark so that no one could see the smoke.

Shadows danced around the cave as we ate, but they were comforting shadows. Familiar. And after all the hardships of the last few days, that mutton was the most delicious meal I'd ever tasted, for all that it came from one of our scrawny Highland ewes and had no seasoning other than hunger to recommend it.

“Ye did well today,” Dunbar said, using the back of his hand to wipe grease from his chin. “If ye hadna been watching my back, that villain might have pricked me with his wee knife, and then I'd have had to kill them both.”

“They would have deserved it,” I said. Even in the shadowy cave I could see him smile.

“Aye, but then I'd have had the law down on my head for sure. As things stand, I do little enough harm with my poaching and whisky, but killing a man would make me more than a nuisance. It would take me from rogue to criminal. And the taking of a man's life is a scar that heals hard. I did enough of it in the king's army to know.” Now his face was solemn, drawn down, the sharp planes of his cheeks darkened.

He reached for his whisky jug and yanked out the stopper with a sharp pop. Throwing back a hearty swig, he wiped the neck of the jug with his sleeve, then offered it to me. “We'll drink together like comrades after a battle.”

I took it from him and raised it to my lips. I was wary of the Rogue's personal brew, and Pa had never let us drink whisky except once to wet our lips at Mother's funeral and again at our celebration of the victory over the laird. But I couldn't show any want of courage, not now, when Dunbar was making a gesture of friendship. I needed that friendship. If he thought himself my friend, he would offer help. I took as big a mouthful as I dared and swallowed.

The liquor blazed down my throat and settled in my stomach like a bonfire. I gulped hard, almost dropping the jug. I prayed silently that the mutton I'd eaten would stay put.

Dunbar chuckled and took the jug out of my hands. “That was a giant's dram you put away there,” he said. “Next time just take a sip so there's some left for me.”

He took another swallow and sighed contentedly. “This is more whisky than we ever got after a real battle,” he said. “And it's got more bite too.”

I leaned back against the wall. My head was going slightly muzzy, even after just one long drink. I heard myself saying, “So, ye fought at Waterloo.”

He smiled into the darkening cave. “Aye, that's a fine tale and true. I never got Napoleon in my sights, though,” he added with a wink. The firelight flickering over his face made him look more roguish than ever.

“Tell me about it, then.”
Was that
my
voice, so soft and yearning
?

“Boys always want to hear about battles,” he said with a chuckle, “but if ye've the sense God gave a mouse, ye'll steer clear of them.” He gave me the jug and let me have a couple more sips before he took it back. Then he leaned forward and began his story.

“I was with Gordon's Highlanders, as rough and foul-mouthed a pack of fighting men as ye'll ever meet. Drawn up along a ridge in Belgium we were, with Napoleon's army in all their finery lined up on the other side of the valley.

“I remember the French cannon booming all through the morning, iron balls tearing through our ranks and ripping men limb from limb. Our Scots cavalry silenced them for a while, but not for long. Eventually we were ordered to fall back to the far side of the ridge so we'd have some shelter from the guns.

“The French thought we were running away, so Marshall Ney mustered the whole of Boney's cavalry to come after us. Ten thousand strong they were: lancers, hussars, cuirassiers and all. They were hoping to catch us by our breeks and give us a good hiding.”

“Never!” I said.

He frowned slightly at the interruption and continued. “‘Form square!' came the order. Aye, the square—that was how we were trained to stand against cavalry. A big jagged square we made, three ranks on each side, our bayonets bristling like thorns on a hedge.

“It was all bustle and shouting till we were in formation, then it went deathly quiet. It was in that silence we heard them coming, the drumming of forty thousand hooves, the loudest thunder you ever heard.

“Then they broke over the ridge, like a giant wave bursting the dams of hell. I swear I gripped my musket so tight I came close to snapping it in two. Down the slope they charged, a flood that looked to sweep us away like driftwood. The sun was flashing on their lance points and on the curved blades of their sabers. The horses were snorting like devils in the fury of their charge, kicking up clods of muddy grass as they bore down on us.”

I could see it all, even in the dark of the cave, but this time I knew better than to say a word.

He took a wee sip of the jug to wet his mouth, then shouted: “‘Present arms!'”

I must have jumped a foot.

“That's what the captain bellowed. So, I braced the gun against my shoulder and took aim at the oncoming line of horsemen. ‘Fire!' came the command.

“Every man of us pulled the trigger at the same moment, and our volley went off with a roar. Fire and smoke billowed out from our lines, bringing down horses and shooting riders right out of their saddles.

“Then they burst upon our red-coated squares like a raging sea, a mad tide of horseflesh and iron. The horses shied away from our wall of bayonets and the riders swirled about, stabbing and slashing for all they were worth.

“All around me was a frenzy of reloading, orders being yelled and curses spat into the dust that was flying about us. A French cuirassier, dreadful to behold, sliced the head clean off one of the lads kneeling in front of me. One stroke of his saber and all I saw was his body toppling to the left.”

I gasped and looked to my left as if expecting to see a headless body there.

“Then his horse, a huge, terrible beast, black as midnight, took a bayonet in its flank. It reared up high, kicking its forehooves in the air and whinnying its pain. The cuirassier rider waved his bloody sword above the crest of his helmet and roared his defiance at us.

“Well, I'd reloaded by this time and took careful aim at the beast's head—and fired. The musket ball tore right through its skull, spilling out its brains, and the poor beast dropped dead right in front of us. The rider fell clear and scrambled to his feet in a fury, yelling curses at us in his Froggy tongue.

“Instead of running away, he came at us, blade held high. Whether it was revenge for his horse, I dinna know, but I could see in his eyes that he meant to murder as many of as he could while breath remained. I'd nae time to reload again, so I lunged with my musket, driving the point of my bayonet right through his throat.

“I yanked it free and the blood spurted out over his shiny armor. His eyes were still wide open as he crumpled to the ground. His gloved hand pawed uselessly at his throat, trying to stanch the wound.”

Dunbar's eyes had a faraway look to them, and his left hand drifted to his own throat. Then he muttered the same thing he'd said to me earlier: “The taking of a man's life is a scar that heals hard.” He went silent for a long moment.