Unknown (65 page)

‘
What's
to do?' it asked, flatly, a little querulously, but quite sanely.
'Pate? Johnnie? What's to do?'

Surprised,
they both turned to stare. These were the first lucid words for
three nights and two days.

"Glory
be, man - you are yourself again!' Inchbrakie exclaimed. 'Thank
God!'

'Father!
You arc well? Can you see me now? Hear me? You have not known me.
All these days.'

'Days?
Days, you say?'

‘
Yes,
many days. You have lain there...'

'This
is the third day, Jamie,' Pate amended. 'We
...
we feared for you.'

'I
have been
...
on a journey, I think. A strange journey.' That was said slowly.
'Far. Where all was very different.' His eyes travelled round the
tent, seeing eyes now. 'I doubt ... if I am very glad... to be
back.'

'I
am glad - and that's God's truth !' his friend declared. "You
were strange, yes - sick, Jamie. Sick. Knowing nothing. And this
camp has been in a stour while you lay. They are all crazy-mad, I
swear. That Alastair...'

Montrose
was not listening. 'This Scotland,' he said, his voice ruminative.
'I saw it all. As in a picture. A fair realm. All this goodly land.
But doomed. Fated. Betrayed by a fatal disease. You hear? Doomed.'

They
stared.

'Betrayed.
By disunity. And treachery. This Scotland. Every man a law unto
himself. So that he will unite truly with none. Each esteeming his
own freedom above all else. Above the realm's freedom. To think. To
speak. To act. As each will. And so distrusting all other. It is our
curse . . .'

'Aye.
Maybe.' A little askance Inchbrakic eyed him, unsure whether or
not he still might be wandering in his mind. 'But, Jamie - there's
closer trouble than that. Here, in the camp. High words. My lords
Airlie and Kinnoull cannot get on with your Alastair. Nor he with
them. Or any, savve his own barbarians. There's been near to
bloodshed. Here is no army, any more ...'

‘
I
say this Scotland is torn apart,' the other went on, in the same
quiet, withdrawn voice. 'Torn by ravening wolves, while the
shepherds tear each the other. I saw an army. An army of dead men.
All dead. Weeping for this Scotland. The King led it...'

The
King? Dead!' John cried. 'Never that! It was but an ill dream.
Father, you but dreamed...'

Montrose
turned his head to look thoughtfully at the boy. 'I saw other in
that army,' he said. Then he turned away again. He did not say that
he had seen himself and his son, both, behind the King.

Pate
fidgeted uneasily. He did not like such talk. Montrose's
mother, the Lady Margaret Ruthven, was reputed to have had 'the
sight', even to have dabbled in witchcraft. The Ruthvens were that
way inclined. Abruptly he changed the subject

'You
will be hungry, Jamie? No food has passed your lips these three
days. Nor drink. I will bring you something . ..'

There
was a commotion at the tent-door. Stooping, the huge person of
Alastair MacDonald came striding in. He was a little unsteady on his
feet - but that was nothing unusual.

'So
you
have
come
to your wits, my lord Marquis!' he said. 'The whisper is round the
camp. Not before time, 'fore God! I was near away, your warrant or
none.'

Not
very interestedly, Montrose eyed his Major-General. He inclined his
head, but did not speak.

'Mary-Mother
— are you yourself, man? In your right senses?' the big man
demanded, raising his voice.

'I
can hear you very well, Alastair.' That was quiet.

'You
can? Then hear this, my lord. I have had enough of lurking and
idling. As have my men, whatever! It is time that we were off, by
God! About our own affairs. It is October now. Soon the snows will
block the passes. No time for campaigning in these mountains. I
am for off, my lord Marquis.'

The
other moistened his lips, but said nothing.

'We
serve no good end here.' Colkitto's great voice was rising again.
'My men arc fighters, see you - not dodgers and sitters! This idling
and scuttling mislikes them. They are less than the men they should
be. We must be off.'

'Where,
Alastair? Whither?'

To
the West. To the Western Sea. Where we came from. To winter there.
Where there are no snows. I go to my castle of Mingary, in
Ardnamurchan. My lord Antrim was to send me supply ships. More men.
Provisioning. Arms. From Ulster. They may be there now. We go winter
on that western seaboard.'

'But
not as . . . scuttlers? Idlers?' That was mild, gentle almost

'God's
wounds - no! All the Campbell lands lie south of Ardnamurchan. We
shall not spend our winter idly!'

'Scotland
will not be won for King Charles from Ardnamurchan, Alastair, I
think.'

'Is
it being won here? Thus?'

'If
I can coax Argyll into these mountains, where his cavalry are little
use to him, much may be won.'

'He
was leaving Castle Gight, on the Ythan, last word to come in, my
lord Marquis,' Pate interpolated. 'Turning westwards towards the
Spey. Still following. But slowly.'

'A
cat to your mouse!' the MacDonald snorted, scornfully. 'You
will not win Scotland so, either! I am for the West'

'Even
if I am not, Major-General ?'

The
giant frowned. 'Aye,' he said. 'You are a sick man, my lord. I, and
mine, cannot dance attendance on a sick man, who prefers to skulk
than to fight Through a Highland winter. My sorrow - but that
is the truth of it. I am for Ardnamurchan.'

'You
have not forgiven me for Aberdeen, I think? That I called in your
dogs of war.'

Colkitto
said nothing.

'I
cannot hold you, Alastair,' Montrose said, with a sigh. ‘You
will do as you must. Who am I to
command
you
to stay. But... I ask you.'

The
other shook his red head. 'There is much to be done in the West
Nothing to be done here. I go. Tomorrow. Come with me, my lord - if
you will.'

'No,
sir.' Sir James Graham's voice was weak now, only a whisper —
but lacking nothing in decision. 'If I go
...
to the West . . . Argyll will follow me. Where he is stronger than
ever. And Lowland Scotland .
..
will lose what heart
...
it has. I bide.'

Shrugging,
the big man turned, and stalked out.

'Hielant
barbarian!' Pate growled. 'Papist scum! I told you they were not to
be trusted. Any of them. Treacherous dogs!'

Sinking
back, staring at the tent-roof again, Montrose shook his head. 'Not
treacherous,' he murmured. 'They fight a different war. That is
all.'

So,
next morning, weak and leaning against the gnarled trunk of an
ancient pine, but on his feet again, the King's Lieutenant-General
watched two-thirds of his force march away from the tree-clad shores
of Loch-an-Eilean in Rothiemurchus - with bickering and vituperation
between the Gaelic and the Lowland contingents right to the end. At
least they took their pathetic trail of women with them -the cause
of much of the strife. Montrose himself had carefully refrained
from acrimony; but he could not hide his sadness at the occasion,
nor his awareness of the blow this was to the King's cause. He had
asked God, the King, his friends, even Magdalen, for a year, one
year to win Scotland - and he had been given five weeks. In this
time he had won two battles, taken two cities, covered a deal of
Scotland, countenanced a great evil, besmirched his name - and lost
his army. Only O'Cahan and a party of
120,
out
foraging, were left him of Colkitto's force. With the last bagpipe
notes of the Gaelic host fading away amongst the pines, James
Graham, refusing all company, even his son's, but accepting a stick
Johnnie found for him as support, moved shakily down to the water's
edge and along the loch-shore. His mind was still bemused, woolly,
far from incisive; but he had to think clearly.

Gazing
out across the lapping waters to the little castle on its island,
built by that shameful royal brigand, Alexander Stewart, Earl of
Buchan and Wolf of Badenoch, two centuries before, he sought to
concentrate his thoughts. His strange illness had affected him as
strangely, causing him to see things from a different standpoint.
That it was a more philosophical perhaps fatalistic standpoint, he
was aware. For too long he had been fretting, anxious, harassed by
great matters and small, of national import or merely personal. And
alone - always and essentially alone in it all. Now, it seemed that
somehow his body and mind together had called a halt, taken their
own steps to relieve the strain he had long been under. He was still
weak, of course, and this might be partly responsible; but the fact
was that in his mind he now felt strangely at peace, unconcerned
with what had so worried and frustrated him hitherto - or perhaps
resigned might better describe it. The pressure, somehow, was
relaxed. By some means or other, in those past three days and nights
of wanderings in far places, he had reached and emerged from a
crisis. And now, on the other side of it, he was, he knew, a
slightly different man. He believed that he would never be quite the
same again.

Which
was all very well - but obviously such relaxation, such resigned
attitude, held drastic dangers for a commander of men. In his new
frame of mind, was he no longer fit to be the King's
Lieutenant-General? Even of so small a host as was left to him? It
might be so. But he certainly could not be relieved of his command
for a considerable time to come; and he owed it to his men, and to
Charles Stewart, to be at least as good a general as he had been
hitherto, if not better. No change in his outlook, or state of mind,
however attained, altered his simple duty.

Eyes
lifting to the great heather mountains behind the loch, above the
dark green sea of the pine forest, already turning to the ochres and
sepias that spoke of coming winter, James Graham considered what he
could and must, do for Scotland and King Charles, with
500
men.
First of all, he must try to keep alight the flame of hope which he
might have lit in loyal hearts, hope that the cause was far from
lost - this above all. So it meant gestures again, devices,
continuing tokens, constant activity to make men talk and wonder,
even to chuckle. To do that, he had to continue to keep Argyll
involved, winter or no winter. He could not now hope to engage the
Campbell in battle; but he could trail him endlessly across
Scotland, harass and weary him, make a fool of him for all the land
to see, show the King's flag here, there and everywhere, to set
tongues wagging. Pinpricks perhaps - but if these were
persistent enough they could have cumulative effect far beyond their
actual worth. The Campbell had shown himself to be a slow and
cautious campaigner in the field. He must be baited, outstretched,
mocked. So would his name, and the menace of it, sink in Scotland.
It was the only way ...