The orderly pointed ahead. “The men that shouted will pe round the other side of thisbeinn. Let uss make haste, sir!”
Praying that the Highlander was not mistaken Keith scrambled into the saddle, and his horse began to strain up the slope. He himself could hear nothing but the melancholy notes of a disturbed plover, which was wheeling not far above their heads, and he cursed the bird for drowning more distant sounds. Then, sharp through the mournful cry, there did come a sound, the crack of a shot—of two shots—and the mountains re-echoed with it.
For a moment both Keith and his orderly instinctively checked their horses; then Keith struck spurs into his, and in a few minutes the panting beast had carried him to the top of the shoulder . . . and he had his view.
Directly before him rose another mountain-side, much greener than the rest, and this greenness extended downwards into the almost level depression between it and the slope whose summit he had now reached. Below him, in this narrow upland valley, stood a small group of rough huts for use when the cattle were driven up to the summer pasture, and in front of these was drawn up a body of redcoats, to whom a mounted officer was shouting orders. On the ground near the entrance of the largest shieling lay a motionless Highlander. The shots thus explained themselves; the soldiers were at their usual work, and Keith had ridden into the midst of it. He felt weariness and disgust, but he needed direction too badly not to be glad to meet with those who could give it. Presumably the detachment was from the post on Wade’s road, and the officer might even be Major Guthrie himself. Hoping that the worst was now over, he rode slowly down the hillside through the bloomless heather, unnoticed by the group below.
The fern-thatched roof of one of the shielings had already been fired, and to its first cracklings Keith realised with distaste that the butchery was not yet finished. Three or four scarlet-clad figures came out of the hut before which the dead man lay, half carrying, half dragging another Highlander, alive, but evidently wounded. The officer pointed, and they followed the usual summary method in such cases, and, after planting him against the dry-stone wall of the building itself, withdrew, leaving him face to face with the firing-party. But apparently their victim could not stand unsupported, for a moment or so after they had retired he slid to one knee and then to the ground.
“Detestable!” said Major Windham to himself. He had recognised the tartan now—the one of all others that he would never mistake, for he had worn it himself—the Cameron. But that did not surprise him. The doomed Highlander was now struggling to his feet again; he gained them unaided, and, steadying himself with one hand against the wall behind him, stood once more upright, so tall that his head was well above the edge of the low thatch. Now Keith was near enough to see the lower end of a dirty bandage round his left thigh, and the whole of another on his sword arm, for all that he had upon him was a kilt and a ragged shirt. And——
“Good God!” exclaimed the Englishman aloud; and, calling out at the top of his voice, “Stop! stop!” he drove the spurs into his horse, came slithering down the last part of the slope, raced towards the shieling, leapt off, and, holding up his hand—but all faces were now turned towards him—ran in between the already levelled muskets and Ewen Cameron.
Ewen alone had not seen him. His face was the colour of the wall behind him; his eyes were half closed, his teeth set in his lower lip, and it was plain that only his force of will was keeping him upright there. A tiny trickle of blood was beginning to course down his bare leg. And even the blind instinct to face death standing could keep him there no longer; for the second time he swayed, and the wounded leg gave way under him again. But this time Keith’s arms caught him as he sank.
Oblivious of the stupefaction which had descended upon the soldiers, and of the more than stupefaction manifested by the officer behind them, Keith lowered that dead weight to the ground and knelt beside it. In Ardroy’s gaunt face a line of white showed under the closed lids, and Keith’s hand pressed on the torn shirt found a heartbeat so faint that he thought, ‘He was dying when they dragged him out, the brutes!’ Perhaps he had not been in time after all. He remembered that there was brandy in his holster, and looked up with an idea of summoning Mackay.
But by this time the officer had ridden up, and was there a pace or two away, towering over the pair by the wall.
“Am I tae tak ye for a surgeon, sir?” he enquired in a strong Lowland accent, and in a tone compounded of hot rage and cold. “If sae, an’ ye’ll hae the kindness tae shift yersel’ oot o’ the way for a meenut, there’ll be nae further need o’ yer sairvices!”
Keith laid Ewen’s head down on the grass, and, standing up, regarded the rider, a neat, fair-complexioned Scot of about five-and-forty, with little light eyes under sandy brows.
“Major Guthrie, I think?” he suggested, and saluted him. “I am Major Keith Windham of the Royals, on General Hawley’s staff, and now on my way with despatches from His Royal Highness to Perth.”
“I care little if ye hae despatches frae God Himsel’!” retorted Major Guthrie with increasing fury. “And this isna Perth . . . Haud awa frae yon wa’—unless ye’ve a fancy tae be shot tae!”
But Keith did not move. “This is not a common Highlander, sir,” he said, as calmly as he could. “He is an officer, despite his dress.” For officers, as Major Guthrie must know, were not shot in cold blood—now.
“What’s that tae me?” enquired Guthrie. He turned. “Here, ye sumphs, pit him up afore the wa’ again!”
Two of the men made an undecided move forwards, but the sight of this other officer of equal rank standing so resolutely in front of the prostrate Highlander daunted them.
“But listen, Major Guthrie,” pleaded Keith, keeping a tight hold upon his own rapidly rising temper and disgust, “this gentleman is really of more than ordinary importance, for he was at one time aide-de-camp to the Pretender’s son, and he is Lochiel’s near kinsman—some kind of cousin, I think. You surely would not——”
“Lochiel’s near kinsman, did ye say?” interrupted Guthrie, bending down a little. “Hoo is he called?”
“Cameron of Ardroy, a captain in Lochiel’s regiment. I am sure,” went on Keith, eager to follow up the impression which Lochiel’s name appeared to have made, “I am sure you will recognise, Major, that the Duke would not wish him to be shot out of hand like this!”
“Indeed I’m obliged tae ye, Major Somebody or ither, for sae kindly instructing His Royal Highness’s wishes tae me,” retorted the Lowlander, but he bent still farther from the saddle, and gazed down for a moment at what was lying so still by the wall—at the dirty, bloodstained, half-clothed figure which Keith had last seen so gallant in powder and satin, cool, smiling and triumphant. The plea he had offered—the only plea that he could think of—was it going to save Ewen Cameron from lying there stiller yet? He tried to read Guthrie’s intentions on his face, but all that he could see there was its innate meanness and cruelty.
The saddle creaked as the rider came upright again. He looked down at Keith himself now with eyes that seemed to hold a flickering light.
“This is God’s truth ye’re tellin’ me, that yon”—he pointed contemptuously—“is Lochiel’s cousin?”
“Yes, on my honour as an officer.”
“And may I speir hoo ye ken it?”
“Because I have met him before. I assure you, sir, that if they knew at Inverness——”
“This is nae mair Inverness than it is Perth, Major—Keith! I’m actin’ here on my ain authority, and if yon lousy rebel lying there had the Duke’s ain protection on him I wudna regard it if I thocht fit. Still and on, I’m weel aware that as Lochiel’s near kinsman he may be of mair value alive than deid—we shall see of hoo much in a day or two. . . . Aye, I doot they’ll be wishing they had him at Inverness!”
“But you cannot send him all the way to Inverness,” protested Keith, rather alarmed. “He is evidently badly wounded—ill. . . .” He dropped on one knee beside Ewen again.
Guthrie gave a short laugh. “Did I say I was gaun to? Ye maun tak me for a fule, Major. Findin’s keepin’, as they say.—But deil kens,” he added, suddenly dismounting, “hoo I’m tae transport the man even to my ain camp the nicht; I’ve naething tae carry him on, and I dinna jalouse——” Here he too came and stooped over the unconscious figure. “Aye,he’sno’ for sittin’ a horse, that’s plain. I’m thinkin’ I’ll e’en hae to leave him here till the morn, and send doun a party wi’ a litter. There’s ane thing,” he added coolly, raising himself with a shrug of his shoulders, “he’ll no’ rin awa’, and there’s naebody left aboot the place. Aye, that’s what I’ll dae.”
“You are going to leave him here alone all night, in this state?” exclaimed Keith, loosing the almost pulseless wrist.
Guthrie stared angrily at him. “Upon my saul, Major! Are ye expectin’ a spital on Ben Loy? For a man on Hawley’s staff ye’re unco tender tae a rebel! If I canna tak the prisoner wi’ me I’ve nae choice but leave him here . . . unless ye’d prefer me tae blaw his harns oot after a’. It’s nane too late for it yet, ye ken.” And he laid a hand on one of his own pistols.
“No, you are quite right, sir,” said Keith hastily, almost humbly. “I see that you can do nothing else but leave him till the morning.”
“Sergeant,” called out Major Guthrie, “pit the prisoner ben the hoose again, and dinna fire yon shieling. Noo, Major Keith, in payment for the guid turn ye’ve done me, I’ll hae the pleasure of offerin’ ye hospeetality for the nicht, and settin’ ye on the richt road for Perth, which ye’re no’ on the noo, ye ken!”
“I am much beholden to you, sir,” replied Keith stiffly. “But I am not aware of having laid you under any obligation.”
Guthrie raised his sandy eyebrows. “Are ye no’? Aweel, ye may be richt; we’ll see, we’ll see.—Aye, sergeant, fire the lave o’ them; we mauna leave ony bield for the rebels.”
The thatch of the next shieling, going up with a roar, lit sharply the uniforms of the men who, roughly enough, lifted Ardroy from the ground, and, staggering a little, for he was no light weight, disappeared with him round the corner of the miserable little dwelling. Biting his lip, Keith watched them go; and then Mackay brought up his horse, restive at the flames. The men came out again.
“Well, Major, are ye no’ satisfied?” asked Guthrie, already back in the saddle.
Satisfied? No. But he was on such dangerous ground; this man’s mercy, if so it could be called, was like a bog; at any moment there might be no more foothold. A little more pressing for better treatment, and he would have Ardroy shot out of mere spite; Keith was sure of it. But—left alone, scarcely breathing . . . and in what conditionhadEwen been left in there?
“I’ll ride after you in a moment, sir,” he said. “You see, I am under a sort of obligation to this young Cameron. I’ll just go in and leave him my brandy-flask.”
Really Major Guthrie of Campbell’s regiment had the most unpleasant eyes he had ever encountered! “As ye will, sir,” he returned. “I doot he’ll no’ be able tae thank ye. But I advise ye no’ tae be ower lang wi’ him, for I canna wait, and ’tis for me tae warn ye this time that the Duke’ll no’ be verra pleased if ye lose the way tae Perth again.” He turned his horse; Keith took the flask out of his holster, said a word to Mackay, and went round to the door of the shieling.
It was Neil MacMartin who lay shot not far from the entrance; Keith recognised him instantly. No doubt it was only over his dead body that they had been able to get at his wounded foster-brother. Inside the tiny place it was so dark that for a moment Keith could hardly see anything; then, by a sudden red glow from without, he distinguished Ewen’s body in the far corner, on a heap of something which proved to be dried fern and heather. The soldiers had flung him back there with little regard for his wounds or for the coming cold of night. But there was a plaid lying in a heap on the floor; Keith picked this up and spread it over him. Ardroy was still senseless, but when Keith tried to arrange him more comfortably he moaned; yet it was only the faintest trickle of brandy which the Englishman could get down his throat. He desisted finally, for fear of choking him, and closed his cold, nerveless hand round the flask instead. Looking about he saw not a trace of food nor even of water, though there was an overturned bowl on the floor; he hurried out with this to the burn which he had noticed, filled it and placed it within reach. But it seemed rather a mockery, now that the only hand which might have held it to Ewen Cameron’s lips was lifeless outside. Had he done Ardroy a kindness after all in saving him from the volley?
Mackay was in the doorway. “The redcoats iss all gone, Major. I am not seeing them now.”
Keith jumped up. His duty came before an enemy’s plight, whatever were his feelings towards that enemy. He could do no more.
The leaping flames outside had died down to mere incandescence, and the dead man and the senseless were left in possession of the darkening hollow where the burn’s voice, babbling on in protest or unconcern, was now the only sound to break the silence.
“Weel, sir, and was yerfrien’ able tae thank ye?” enquired Major Guthrie when the Englishman overtook him at the end of the little column as it wound along the mountain-side. Keith said No, that he had not yet recovered his senses.
“’Tis tae be hoped he’ll hae gotten them again when I send for him,” commented the Lowlander. “He’ll no’ be o’ muckle use else. But are ye sure, Major, that he kens whaur Lochiel is the noo?”
“How do I know what he knows? And use—of what use do you expect him to be?” asked Keith shortly.
“What use?” Guthrie reined up. “Losh, man, dinna ye ken there’s a thousand punds on Lochiel’s heid, that he’s likely skulking somewhere round Achnacarry or Loch Arkaig, and that tae ken his hiding-place wad be half-way tae the apprehension o’ the man himsel’! Gin ye come frae Inverness ye canna be ignorant o’ that!—And why for else did ye lay sic a stress upon yon rebel bein’ sib tae Lochiel, if ye didna mean that he wad be o’ use tae us in that capacity?”
Keith sat his horse like a statue, and stared at the speaker with feelings which slowly whitened his own cheek. “Is it possible you imagine that I thought Ewen Cameron, a Highlander and a gentleman, would turn informer against his own Chief?”
“Then for what ither reason,” retorted Guthrie, “when ye came wi’ yer damned interference, did ye insist on his kinship wi’ Lochiel, and imply that he kenned o’ his whereaboots?”
“I never implied such a thing!” burst out Keith indignantly. “Not for a moment! You must most strangely have mistaken me, Major Guthrie. And if Cameron of Ardroy did know, he would never dream of betraying his knowledge!”
“Ah,” commented Guthrie, surveying him slowly. “Then it’s no’ worth the fash o’ sendin’ for him the morn.” And smiling crookedly he touched his horse with his heel, and moved on again after his men.
But Keith Windham remained behind on the mountain path, almost stunned with disgust. That he should be thought capable of suggesting such a reason for sparing Ewen Cameron’s life! This then was the cause of Major Guthrie’s change of intention at the mention of Lochiel’s name, the meaning of his reference to the ‘good turn’ which Major Windham had done him! Keith’s impulse was to leave the very path which Guthrie’s horse had trodden. But he could not gratify this desire; he was dependent on Guthrie’s guidance. Besides, Ardroy lay helpless and utterly alone in the hut; he had not saved him yet. Great heavens, what line was he to take to that end now?
He moved on slowly after the Lowlander, who took no notice of him. On the narrow path they were obliged to ride in single file, but soon the track, descending to a lower level, joined a wider one, and here the Major waited for him to come abreast.
“Since your object in hinderin’ the execution a while syne wasna zeal for His Majesty’s sairvice, as I thocht,” he observed, “ye maun gie me leave to say, Major . . . I didna richtly get yer name—that I find yer conduct unco strange.”
“I am fully prepared to answer to my superiors for my conduct, sir,” replied Keith very stiffly. “As I told you just now, I am under an obligation to that young Cameron such as any soldier may owe to an enemy without dishonour. He spared my life when it was his for the taking, and as his prisoner last year I received very different treatment from that which we are now giving to ours!”
“Ah, sae ye were his prisoner?” repeated Guthrie, fixing his little ferret eyes upon him. “When micht that hae been?”
“It was after the affair at High Bridge last summer,” answered Keith shortly.
“High Bridge!” A light seemed to dawn on Guthrie’s face—not a pleasant light. “What, it’syouthat lost the twa companies of Sinclair’s there, along wi’ Scott last August—ye’ll be Major Windrum then?”
“Windham,” corrected Keith, still more shortly.
“Ou aye, Windham. Tae think I didna ken the man I was gangin’ wi’, me that’s aye been ettlin’ tae meet ye, for I mind hearin’ ye were pit on Hawley’s staff after yon tuilzie—ha, ha! Aye, I mind hearin’ that verra weel.—Nae offence meant, Major Windham”—for Keith’s expression was distinctly stormy—“we all hae oor meelitary misfortunes, . . . but we dinna a’ get promoted for them!—And ye were sayin’ yon rebel made ye prisoner. What did he dae wi’ ye?”
“He accepted my parole,” said the Englishman between his teeth.
“And let ye gang?”
“No. I was at his house for some days, and afterwards accompanied him to Glenfinnan.”
“Ye seem tae hae been chief wi’ him! And whaur was this hoose of his, if ye please?”
“Can that be of any moment to you, sir?” retorted Keith, goaded by this interrogatory.
“Dod! I should think sae! It’s o’ moment tae me tae ken hoo far it lay frae Lochiel’s ain hoose of Achnacarry.”
“Well, that I am afraid I cannot tell you,” replied Keith sourly. “I was never at Achnacarry, and I have no knowledge of the neighbourhood. I am not a Scotsman.”
“Fine I ken that! But e’en a Southron has lugs tae his heid, and ye maun hae heard tell the name o’ the district whaur yon rebel’s hoose was situate? If ye canna tell me that I’ll be forced tae think——” He broke off with a grin.
“And what, pray, will you be forced to think?” demanded Keith, surveying him from under his lids.
“Aweel, I suld think ye could jalouse that,” was Guthrie’s reply. “Come noo, Major, ye can surely mind some landmark or ither?”
It was no use fencing any more. “Mr. Cameron’s house was near a little lake called the Eagle’s Lake, in the mountains some way to the north of Loch Arkaig.”
“Ah, thank ye, Major Windham, for the effort,” said Guthrie with another grin. “I hae a map in the camp. . . . And syne ye couldna be pairted frae yer rebel frien’, but gaed wi’ him to Glenfinnan tae see the ploy there?”
“Do you suppose I went willingly? I have told you that I was his prisoner.”
“But ye were at Glenfinnan wi’ him, and that’s o’ moment too, for nae doot ye’d see him an’ Lochiel thegither. Did ye no’?”
“Once or twice.”
“And hoo did they seem—on intimate terrms wi’ ane anither?”
“I was not concerned to spy upon them,” retorted Keith, who had an instant picture of the Chief as he had once seen him, with an affectionate hand on Ewen’s shoulder, a picture he was not going to pass on. “I have told you that they were cousins.”
“Aye, ye tellt me that. But ilka Highlander is cousin tae twenty mair.” They rode on for perhaps a moment in silence, and then Guthrie began again. “See here, Major Windham, what the de’il’s the gude o’ tellin’ me the Cameron’s this and that, and syne, when ye’ve hindered me frae shootin’ him as he desairves, tae begin makin’ oot he’s naething o’ the sort? I suppose ye’ll say noo he wasna aide-de-camp tae the Pretender’s son neither?”
“I am not in the habit of telling lies,” replied Keith. “Hewasaide-de-camp to the Pretender’s son, at least when the Highland army occupied Edinburgh, and that, as I said, and say still, is an excellent reason for not shooting him out of hand.”
“Ye met him in Enbra, then?”
“I did.”
“As an enemy or a frien’?”
“As an enemy, of course.” Keith was having to keep a tight hold of himself. “Yet there again he put me under an obligation.” And at Guthrie’s expression he was unable to resist adding, “But I dare warrant the recognition of an obligation is no part of your creed, sir.”
Guthrie met this thrust instantly. “And me that gleg the noo tae allow mine tae ye! Fie, Major! But as a plain soldier I’m thinkin’ there’s ower muckle obleegation atween you and yer Cameron; ye’re gey frien’ly wi’ him for an enemy, rinnin’ in like that when ye micht hae gotten a ball in yer ain wame. But since ye assure me he’ll no’ tell what he kens aboot Lochiel, he maun e’en bide in yon shieling and rot there, for it’s no’ worth a brass bodle tae bring him in.”
Keith’s heart sank at these words. Yet he could not bring himself to assert that Ardroy would impart his knowledge (if he had any), for he was certain that he would rather die than do such a thing. Yet somehow hemustbe got out of that desolate place.
He summoned up all his own powers of dissimulation.
“You are quite mistaken, Major Guthrie,” he said carelessly. “I am not a friend of Mr. Cameron’s in the sense that you imply, and I should be as glad as anyone to hear of Lochiel’s capture—if it would advance His Majesty’s affairs in this kingdom.” He added this qualifying clause to salve his own conscience, since Lochiel’s capture was about the last he would rejoice at. But he had to say something worse than this, and he did it with loathing, and a hesitation which perhaps served him better than he knew, fidgeting meanwhile with his horse’s reins. “You know, sir, that although I am sure Mr. Cameron would never answer a direct question, he might perhaps drop . . . inadvertently drop . . . some hint or other—and I presume you have a certain measure of knowledge and might find a hint valuable—I mean that it might, by good luck, complete your information. At least I should think that it would be worth your while to bring him into camp on the chance of it.”
It sounded to him so desperately feeble a bait that it was surely to no purpose that he had soiled his lips with its utterance. Yet Guthrie appeared to respond to the suggestion with surprising alacrity.
“Drap a hint,” he said meditatively, rubbing his chin. “Aye, maybe. Thank ye for the notion, Major; I’ll e’en think it ower. I could aiblins drap a hint mysel’.” And they rode on in silence for a few minutes after that, Keith not knowing whether he more detested himself or the man beside him.
But by the time that they came in sight of the little river Tarff, which they must ford before they could get up to the Corryarrick road, Major Guthrie was busy weaving what he evidently considered a highly diverting explanation of his companion’s interest in ‘yon rebel’, which he now refused to attribute to the alleged ‘obligation’ under which Major Windham professed to labour. “I see it a’,” he chuckled; “he had a bonny sister, and she was kind tae ye, Major—kind as yon ither lass of a Cameron was kind to the Pretender’s son. Or a wife maybe? Oot wi’ it, ye sly dog——” And for a moment or two he gave rein to a fancy so coarse that Keith, no Puritan himself, yet innately fastidious, longed to shut his mouth.
“And that’s how ye repaid his hospitality, Major,” finished the humorist as they splashed through the Tarff. “’Tis a guilty conscience, not gratitude, garred ye save him!”
After that he reverted to the subject of his companion’s staff appointment, which seemed to possess a sort of fascination for him, and tapped a very galling and indeed insulting vein of pleasantry in regard to it. And Keith, who would not have endured a quarter of this insolence from anyone else in the world, no, not from the Duke of Cumberland himself, swallowed it because he knew that Ewen Cameron’s life hung on this man’s pleasure. First of all his companion supposed that General Hawley did not know what a viper he was cherishing in his bosom, in the shape of an officer who possessed a weakness for rebels which could certainly not be attributed to that commander himself; of this Keith took no notice, so Major Guthrie passed on to affect to find something mightily amusing in the distinction of staff rank having been bestowed on a man who had run away at the first shot of the campaign. He actually used the expression, but at once safeguarded himself by adding, with a laugh, “Nae offence, my dear Major! I ken weel the twa companies o’ Sinclair’s just spat and gied ower, and you and Scott could dae nae less but gang wi’ them—’twas yer duty.” But after a moment he added with a chuckle, “Forbye ye rinned farther than the rest, I’ve heard!”
Ardroy or no Ardroy, this was too much. Keith reined up. Yet, since it seemed deliberate provocation, he kept surprisingly cool. “Major Guthrie, I’d have you know I do not take such insinuations from any man alive! If you know so much about me, you must know also that Captain Scott sent me back to fetch reinforcements from Fort Augustus.”
Guthrie, pulling up too, smote himself upon the thigh. “Aye, I micht ha’ kent it! Forgie me, Major Windham—yon was a pleasantry. I aye likit ma joke!”
“Allow me to say, then, that I do not share your taste,” riposted Keith, with a brow like thunder. “If we were not both on active service at the moment——”
“Ye’d gar me draw, eh? Dinna be that hot, man! ’Twas an ill joke, I confess, and I ask yer pardon for it,” said Guthrie with complete good-humour. “See, yonder’s the camp, and ye’re gaun tae sup wi’ me.”
Keith wished with all his heart that he were not. But he felt, rightly or wrongly, that he must preserve a certain measure of amenity in his relations with the arbiter of Ardroy’s fate, and, though it seemed to him that he had never done anything more repugnant (except make his recent speech about the possibility of Ewen’s dropping a hint) he affected a demeanour modelled in some remote degree upon his companion’s, and insincerely declared that he was foolish not to see that Major Guthrie was joking, and that he bore him no ill-will for his jest.
What baffled him was the reason for the ill-will which he could hardly doubt that Guthrie borehim. Was it because he had hindered the shooting of a rebel? But, according to his own showing, Major Guthrie hoped to find the rebel more useful alive than dead.
It was certainly no deprivation to the Englishman when he discovered, on arriving at Guthrie’s camp athwart the road, some miles from the top of the pass, that he was not to share the commanding officer’s tent. Finding, as he now did, that the distance from the mountain-side where he had come upon the soldiers was not so great as he had feared, he would much have preferred to push on over the pass to Meallgarva, but his horse and his orderly’s were too obviously in need of rest for this to be prudent, and when he was offered a vacant bed in another tent (for it appeared that the captain of the company had gone to Fort Augustus for the night) his worst apprehensions were relieved. The lieutenant, indeed, who made a third at the meal which he was nevertheless obliged to share with Guthrie, was of a different stamp entirely, an open-faced lad from the Tweed named Paton, whom Keith at once suspected of disliking his major very heartily.
On the plea that he must make an early start, the guest afterwards excused himself from playing cards with Guthrie and his subaltern, and withdrew to Lieutenant Paton’s tent. Once there, however, he made no attempt to undress, but flung himself on the camp bed and lay staring at the lantern on the tent pole. A few miles away on the other side of the Tarff the man whom he had tried so hard to save lay dying, perhaps, for want of food and care. What Guthrie’s real intentions were about fetching him in to-morrow he, probably of set purpose, had not allowed his visitor to know. And the question rather was, would Ewen Cameron be alive at all in the morning—he seemed at so low an ebb, and the nights were still so cold. Do what Keith would he could not get him out of his head. It was useless to tell himself that he had, alas, witnessed worse episodes; that it was the fortune of war; that he was womanish to be so much distracted by the thought of an enemy’s situation. He had been that enemy’s guest; he had seen his domestic circumstances, met his future wife, knew what his very furniture looked like. Was not all that even more of a tie than that double debt which he felt he owed him? His instincts were stronger than his judgment, and when, an hour or so later, Lieutenant Paton slipped quietly through the flap of the tent, he rose up and abruptly addressed him.
“Mr. Paton, you look as if you had the natural sentiments of humanity still left in you. Can you tell me where I could procure some food, and if possible some dressings, for that unfortunate rebel left alone upon the mountain-side, about whom you heard at supper?”
The young man looked considerably taken aback, as well he might. “But how would you propose, sir, to get them to him? And the Major, I thought, spoke of fetching him into camp to-morrow.”
“I am not at all sure that he will, however,” replied Keith. “And even if he does I fear he may fetch in a corpse. If I can get some food and wine I propose to take them to him myself; I think I can find the way back without difficulty, and my orderly is a Highlander.” And as Lieutenant Paton looked still more astonished he added, “You must not think me a mere philanthropist, Mr. Paton. I owe the man in that hut a good deal, and I cannot endure the thought of having turned my back upon him in such a plight. In any case I should be making an early start for Dalwhinnie. Is there any cottage in this neighbourhood where I could buy bread?”
“No, but I could procure you some in the camp, sir,” said the boy quite eagerly. “And, as for dressings, you are welcome to tear up a shirt of mine. I . . . I confess I don’t like these extreme measures, even with rebels, and I should be very glad to help you.”
“You’ll not get into trouble, eh?”
“Not to-night, at any rate, sir; the Major is in bed by now. And to-morrow, if it is discovered, I can say that you ordered me to do it, and that I dared not dispute the orders of a staff officer.”
And thus it was that a few hours later Major Windham started back to Beinn Laoigh again with bread and meat and wine, and an orderly who plainly thought him mad. Lieutenant Paton had seen them clear of the camp, whose commander was fortunately wrapped in slumber. Keith would not need to pass its sentries on his return, for the track up from the Tarff joined the road to the pass on the farther side of it.
He found that he had noted the position of the shieling hut better than he could have hoped, considering the disagreeable preoccupation of his mind during the ride thence with Major Guthrie, and by good chance there was a moon not much past the full. In her cold light the mountains looked inexpressibly lonely and remote as Keith rode up the sheep track to the pasture where the harmless little shelters had stood. A faint exhausted smoke yet lifted itself from one or two of the blackened ruins. The stream was chanting its changeless little song, and in the moonlight Neil MacMartin still lay on guard outside the broken door of the one unburnt shieling. Keith bent over him as he passed; he was stiffening already in the plaid which was his only garment. And Ardroy?
Taking from Mackay the lantern which he had brought for the purpose, and the food and wine, Keith went rather apprehensively into the dark, low-roofed place. Except that he had flung his left arm clear, its occupant was lying as he had left him, long and quiet under the tartan covering; his eyes were closed and he did not look very different from his dead foster-brother outside. But as the light fell on his face he moved a little and faintly said some words in Gaelic, among which Keith thought he heard Lachlan’s name. He stooped over him.
“Ardroy,” he said gently, and laid a hand on the arm emerging from the tattered shirt-sleeve.
At the touch Ewen opened his eyes. But all that he saw, evidently, in the lantern light, was the bright scarlet uniform above him. “What, again!” he said with an accent of profound weariness. “Shoot me in here, then; I cannot stand. Have you not . . . a pistol?”
Keith set the lantern on the floor and knelt down by him. “Ardroy, don’t you know me—Windham of the Royals? I am not come for that, but to help you if I can.”
The dried fern rustled as the wounded man turned his head a little. Very hollow in their orbits, but blue as Keith remembered them, his eyes stared up full of unbelief. “Windham!” he said at last, feebly; “no, it’s not possible. You are . . . someone else.”
“No,” said Keith, wondering how clear his mind might be, “it is really Windham, come to help you.” He was searching meanwhile for the flask of brandy which he had left, and finding it slipped down, untouched, among the sprigs of heather, he wetted Ewen’s lips with a little of the spirit.
“Yes, itisWindham,” said Ewen to himself. His eyes had never left his visitor’s face. “But . . . there were other soldiers here before . . . they took me out to shoot . . . I think I must have . . . swooned. Then I was . . . back in this place. . . . I do not know why. . . . Are you sure you . . . have not orders to . . . take me out again?”
“Good God, no!” said Keith. “I have nothing to do with shootings; I am alone, carrying despatches. Tell me, you are wounded—how severely?”
“My right arm . . . that is nothing much. . . . This thigh . . . badly. I cannot . . . move myself.”
“And what of food?” queried Keith. “I do not see any here—but I have brought some with me.” He began to get it out. “Are you not hungry?”
“Not now,” answered Ewen. “I was once . . . Captain Windham,” he went on, apparently gathering together what forces he had, “your coming . . . this charity . . . I cannot . . .”
“Do not try!” put in Keith quickly. “Not hungry? How long, then, is it since you have eaten?”
“Eaten!” said the Highlander, and what might be interpreted as a smile dawned on his bony face. “There is no food . . . in these hills. I have had nothing but water . . . for three days . . . I think. . . . That is why Lachlan has gone . . . to try . . .” The words tailed off as the spark of astonishment and animation in him went out quite suddenly, leaving his face the mask it had been when Keith entered.
Three days! No wonder that he was weak. Keith threw the water out of the bowl, poured some wine into it, and lifting Ewen’s head from the bracken held it to his lips. “Drink this!” he commanded, and had to say it two or three times before Ewen obeyed.
“But this is wine, Lachlan,” he murmured confusedly. “How did you come by wine?” Then his eyes turned on Keith as if he recognised him again, and the recognition was only a source of bewilderment.
Keith meanwhile was breaking bread into the wine. He knew that one must not give a starving man too much food at first. But the fugitive, far from being ravenous, seemed to find it difficult to swallow the sops which were put to his lips. Keith, however, persevered, and even added some meat to the bread, and patiently fed him with that, till Ewen intimated that he could eat no more. Keith’s next intention was then announced.
“Now I am going to dress your wounds, if they need it,” he said. “You’ll permit me?”
“Permityou!” repeated Ewen, gazing at him with a renewal of his former wonder.
Keith took the bowl, and went out for water. The moon was hidden behind a bank of cloud, but a planet hung like a great flower over one of the black mountain-tops. The grazing horses lifted their heads enquiringly, and Mackay, sitting propped against the shieling wall, scrambled sleepily to his feet.
“No, I am not going on yet. Get me that torn linen from my saddlebag.”
To his surprise, when he went back into the hut after even so momentary an absence, Ewen had fallen asleep, perhaps as the result of eating after so long a fast. Keith decided not to rouse him, and waited. But five minutes saw the end of the snatch of feverish slumber, for Ardroy woke with a little cry and some remark about the English artillery which showed that he had been back at Culloden Moor. However, he knew Keith instantly, and when the Englishman began to unbandage his wounded sword-arm, murmured, “That was a bayonet-thrust.”
The arm had indeed been transfixed, and looked very swollen and painful, but, as far as Keith could judge, gave no particular cause for anxiety. He washed the wound, and as he bound it up again saw clearly in the rays of the lantern, which for greater convenience he had set upon an old stool that he had found, a curious white seam on the palm of the hand; another ran across the fingers. He wondered for a moment what they were; then he guessed.
But when he came round and unbandaged Ewen’s thigh—and miserably enough was it bandaged—and found there a deep gash, in no satisfactory state, he was somewhat horrified. This injury called for a surgeon, and he had nearly said so; but, reddening, checked himself, recalling the deliberate denial of care to the Jacobite wounded at Inverness, and the actual removal of their instruments from the few of their own surgeons imprisoned with them. Would Ewen Cameron get real attention in Major Guthrie’s hands?
He glanced at him, lying with his eyes shut and his hands gripped together on his breast, but making neither sound nor movement, and wondered whether he were hurting him intolerably, and what he should do if he went off into another of those long swoons, and thereupon finished his task as quickly as he could and had recourse to the brandy flask once more. And then he sat down at the bottom of the rough bed—for the heather and fern was spread on a rude wooden framework standing about a foot from the floor—and gazed at him with a furrowed brow. The lantern on the stool beside him revealed the Highlander’s pallor and exhaustion to the full, but, though his eyes were closed, and he lay quiet for a considerable time, he was not asleep, for he suddenly opened them, and said:
“I cannot understand; did you know that I was here, Captain Windham . . . or is it chance that has brought you . . . so opportunely?”
“It was chance the first time—for this is the second time that I have been here,” replied Keith. “I will tell you about it. I was on my way this afternoon from Inverness to Perth when some impulse made me attempt a very foolish short cut among the mountains. I think now that it must have been the finger of Fate pushing me, for thus I came upon this place just a moment or two before they dragged you out and set you against the wall . . . only just in time, in fact. I protested and argued with the officer in charge—a Major Guthrie, who has a camp on the Corryarrick road up there—and was fortunately able to prevent his shooting you in cold blood.” And, as Ewen gave a little exclamation, he hurried on in order not to give him time to ask (should he think of it) how he had accomplished this feat. “But he intends—at least I think he intends—to send a party in the morning and take you prisoner; and indeed, brute though he is, I hope that he will do so, for otherwise what will become of you, alone here?”
But Ewen left that question unanswered, and was equally far from asking on what ground he had been spared. The fact itself seemed enough for him, for he was trying agitatedly to raise himself a little. “It was you . . . though I saw no one . . . you saved my life, then!” he exclaimed rather incoherently. “And now . . . is it possible that you have come backagain. . . out of your way! Captain Windham, this debt . . . this more than kindness . . .” He struggled to go on, but between emotion, weakness and recent pain it was more than he could do, and seeing him almost on the point of breaking down Keith stopped him quickly.
“For God’s sake don’t talk of debts, Ardroy—or, if you must, remember what I owe you! See, you are horribly weak; could you not eat a little more now?”
Ewen nodded, not trusting himself to speak, and put out a shaky left hand, apparently to show that he could feed himself. And while he nibbled in a rather half-hearted way at the slice of bread and meat which Keith put into it, Major Windham himself wandered slowly about the hovel. The ashes of last summer’s fires lay white in the middle of the floor, and through the hole in the roof which was the only outlet for the smoke a star looked in as it passed.
It seemed to Keith that before he went on his way he must tell Ardroy the means he had used to save him. Surely there was nothing blameworthy or unnatural in his having revealed who Ewen was, when he stood between him and imminent death? But from telling him the reason which Guthrie supposed or feigned to suppose lay at the back of his action, he mentally shied away like a nervous horse, the Lowlander had rendered the whole subject so horribly distasteful to him. Moreover it was not Guthrie who had suggested that Cameron of Ardroy might ‘inadvertently drop a hint’. Howcouldhe tell Ewen that he had said that about him?
He turned round, miserably undecided. Ewen had finished his pretence at a meal, and his eyes were fixed on his visitor. Keith had a sudden access of panic; he was sure that the Jacobite was going to ask him on what plea he had stopped his execution. He would put a question to him instead.
“How did you get so far with a wound like that?” he asked, coming back to his former place, and sitting down again. “You had Neil MacMartin to help you, I suppose? You mentioned Lachlan, too, just now.”
He had not anticipated more than a brief reply, but Ewen, once started, told him the whole story—not indeed, with any superfluity of words, and slowly, with pauses here and there. But the narrative was quite connected, though the speaker gave a certain dreamy impression of having half forgotten his listener, and of going on as if he were living his experiences over again rather than narrating them.
It appeared that he had received both his wounds in that desperate charge into which the clans of the right wing had broken, maddened by the cruel artillery pounding which they had endured, a charge so furious that it had pierced and scattered the English front line regiments, only to dash itself to pieces on the bayonets of Sempill’s behind them. At the second and severer injury he fell, and was unable to get to his feet again, for it seemed as if a muscle had been severed in his thigh, and he was besides losing blood very fast. Only the devotion of one of his followers got him away from the heap of dead and wounded strewn like seaweed along the front of the second line; this man, powerful and unhurt, tied up the gash as best he could, and succeeded in carrying his chieftain a little out of the carnage, but in doing so he was shot dead, and once more Ewen was on the ground among the fallen. This time he was lying among the dead and wounded of the Atholl men, with none of his own clan to succour him, and here a strange—and yet ultimately a lucky—mischance befell him. For a wounded Stewart, half crazed no doubt by a terrible cut on the head, crawled to him where he lay across his dead clansman and, cursing him for one of the Campbells who had taken them in flank, dealt him a furious blow on the forehead with the butt of a pistol. The result for Ewen was hours of unconsciousness, during which he was stripped by some redcoats who would certainly have finished him off had they not thought him dead already. He came to his senses in the very early morning, naked, and stiff with cold, but so thirsty that he contrived to drag himself as far as the little burn which crossed the end of the English line in the direction of their own. There, almost in the stream, and unconscious again, Lachlan and his brother, who had been searching for him since evening, almost miraculously found him.
His foster-brothers carried him to a farm-house on the moor, where, indeed, he was not the only wounded fugitive, but by noon that day, fearing (and with good reason) a search and a massacre, they somehow procured an old worn-out horse, and taking turns to ride it and to hold him on its back, succeeded in crossing the Water of Nairn and gaining the slopes of the Monadhliath Mountains. What happened then Ewen was not quite clear about; between pain, loss of blood, and exposure he was always more or less fevered, but he remembered an eternity of effort and of going on. At last the old horse fell dead; for a whole day Neil and Lachlan carried him between them till, weakened by want of food, they could get him no farther, and had taken shelter on Beinn Laoigh because the shieling hut at least gave him a roof from the cold and the rain. They did not know of Guthrie’s camp on the Corryarrick road, which indeed was pitched after they got to Beinn Laoigh; in any case they could not entirely avoid the road, for it would have to be crossed somewhere if they were ever to get back to Ardroy. But in these lonely mountains they were really faced with starvation, and Lachlan had at last been forced to go out scouting for food, and must either have gone far afield or have met with disaster, for he had been gone since the day before.
“But if he still breathes,” finished Ewen, “I know that he will return; and if he is in time perhaps he can contrive to get me away to some other hiding-place before the soldiers come for me to-morrow. But in any case, Captain Windham—no, I see that it is Major—I am not likely to forget this extraordinary charity of yours . . . nor your intervention yesterday. . . . Was it yesterday?” he added rather vaguely.
“Yes, since it must now be after midnight. The tartan attracted my notice first,” said Keith, “and then, by great good fortune, I looked again, and recognised you.”
“This is Neil’s kilt that I have on,” said Ewen with a faint smile. “There was not a stitch of my own left upon me. . . . You wore the philabeg too, once . . . it seems a long time ago. . . . But I do not think,” he went on, rather feverishly talkative now, “that you would have recognised me the day before, with a two weeks’ beard on me. It happened, however, that I had made poor Neil shave me as best he could with hissgian.”
“That was good fortune, too,” agreed Keith. “Certainly I should not have known you bearded.”
“And it is because I had been shaved that I am alive now?” Ewen gave a little laugh. “Do you know, Windham, that before ever I met you old Angus, my foster-father—you remember him?—predicted that our lives would cross . . . I think he said five times. And this is . . . I can’t count. . . . How many times have we met already?”
“The old man predicted five meetings!” exclaimed Keith, struck. “How strange! This is the third . . . yes, the third time we have met. If he is right, then we shall meet again, and more than once. I hope it may be in happier circumstances.”
“And that I can thank you more fitly,” murmured Ewen. “Last time . . . do you remember the house in the Grassmarket? . . . You told me the comedy would end some day, and the players be sorry they ever took part in it.”
Keith nodded. It was not the first time in the last twelve hours that he had remembered the house in the Grassmarket.
“But I, for one, do not regret it,” went on Ewen, with a touch of defiance. “Not for myself, that is. I would do it again. Yet there is poor Neil outside, killed defending me . . . and so many others on that horrible moor. . . . You were there, I suppose?”
“I was there,” said Keith. “Butmyhands are clean of the blood of massacre!” he added almost fiercely. “If I could have stopped—— We’d best not speak of it. But your cause is lost, Ardroy, and I suppose you know it. It only remains for you to escape the consequences, if you can.”
“I do not seem to be in very good trim for doing that,” said Ewen, and again he gave the shadow of a smile. “But, since we speak so frankly, I cannot think that our cause is lost while the Prince and Lochiel remain at large. We may be scattered, but—— The Prince has not been captured, has he?” he asked sharply, having evidently seen the change which the mention, not of the Prince but of Lochiel, had brought to Keith’s face.
“No, no, nor is it known where he is.”
“Thank God! And Lochiel?”
Keith shrank inwardly. Now it was coming. His momentary hesitation had a cruel effect on Ewen, who dragged himself to his elbow. “Windham,” he said hoarsely and imploringly, “surely he’s not . . . what have you heard? . . . My God, don’t keep me in suspense like this! If he’s captured tell me!”
“You mistake me,” said Keith, nearly as hoarsely. “He has not been captured. . . . I am sorry if I misled you.”
Ewen had relapsed again, and put a hand over his eyes. It was fairly clear that his Chief’s fate was even more to him than that of his Prince. And now that odious information must be imparted.
Keith tried to gain a little time first. “But Lochiel was wounded in the battle. Did you know that?”
Ewen removed his hand. “Yes, and have thanked God for it, since it caused him to be early carried off the field.”
“You saw him fall?”
“No, but afterwards we met with some of the clan, and got news of him.”
“That must have been a great relief to you,” murmured the Englishman. Suddenly he was possessed with a desire to find out how much Ewen knew about Lochiel. Half of him hoped that he knew very little—why, he could not have said—but the other half thought: If he knows a certain amount, Guthrie will take better care of him. “But you can have had no news of your Chief since then?” he hazarded.
“No,” answered the Highlander. “There has been no opportunity.”
Keith looked at him nervously. Ardroy was lying gazing upwards; perhaps he could see that peering star. Would it be possible to advise him, if he found himself in Major Guthrie’s custody, to pretend to have definite knowledge of Lochiel’s whereabouts, even though that were not the case? Dare he suggest such a thing? It was not one-half as offensive as what he had already suggested to Guthrie!
Ewen himself broke the silence. “Since we speak as friends,” he said, his eyes travelling to the open doorway “—and how could I regard you as an enemy after this?—I may tell you that I have, none the less, the consolation of knowing where Lochiel is at this moment—God bless him and keep him safe!”
Keith’s mouth felt suddenly dry. His unspoken question was answered, and the frankness of the acknowledgment rather took his breath away. Yet certainly, if Ardroy was as frank with Guthrie it might serve him well.
“You know where Lochiel is?” he half stammered.
Ewen shut his eyes and smiled, an almost happy smile. “I think he is where (please God) he will never be found by any redcoat.”
“You mean that he has gone overseas?” asked Keith, almost without thinking.
Ardroy’s eyes opened quickly, and for a second, as he looked up at the speaker, there was a startled expression in them. “You are not expecting me to tell you——”
“No, no,” broke in Keith, very hastily indeed. “Of course not! But I should be glad if he were so gone, for on my soul there is none of your leaders whom I should be so sorry to see captured.”
Yet with the words he got up and went to the doorway. Yes, Ardroyhadthe secret; and he wished, somehow, that he had not. The moment could no longer be postponed when he must tell him of his conversation with Guthrie, were it only to put him on his guard. Bitterly as he was ashamed, it must be done.
He stood in the doorway a moment, choosing the words in which he should do it, and they were hatefully hard to choose. Hateful, too, was it to leave Ardroy here helpless, but there was no alternative, since he could not possibly take him with him. Yet if Lachlan returned, and in time, and especially if he returned with assistance, he might be able to get his foster-brother away somewhere. Then Ewen Cameron would never fall into Guthrie’s hands. In that case what use to torment him with prospects of an interrogatory which might never take place, and which could only be very short?
No; it was mere cowardice to invent excuses for silence; he must do it. He came back very slowly to the pallet.
“I must tell you——” he began in a low voice, and then stopped. Ewen’s lashes were lying on his sunken cheek, and did not lift at the address. It was plain that he had fallen anew into one of those sudden exhausted little slumbers, and had not heard even the sentence which was to herald Keith’s confession. It would be unnecessarily cruel to rouse him in order to make it. One must wait until he woke naturally, as he had done from the last of these dozes.
Keith took the lantern off the stool and sat down there. And soon the wounded man’s sleep became full of disjointed scraps of talk, mostly incoherent; at one time he seemed to think that he was out after the deer on the hills with Lachlan; then he half woke up and muttered, “But it’s we that are the deer now,” and immediately fell into another doze in which he murmured the name of Alison. Gradually, however, his slumber grew more sound; he ceased to mutter and to make little restless movements, and in about five minutes he was in the deep sleep of real repose, which he had not known, perhaps, for many nights—a sleep to make a watcher thankful.
But Keith Windham, frowning, sat watching it with his chin on his hand, conscious that his time was growing very short, that it was light outside, and almost light in this dusky hovel, and that the pool of lantern-shine on the uneven earth floor looked strange and sickly there. He glanced at his watch. No, indeed, he ought not to delay any longer. He took up and blew out the lantern, went outside and roused Mackay, washed the bowl and, filling it with water, placed it and the rest of the food and wine within reach.
His movements had not roused the sleeper in the least. For the last time Keith stooped over him and slipped a hand round his wrist. He knew nothing of medicine, but undoubtedly the beat there was stronger. It would be criminal to wake Ardroy merely in order to tell him something unpleasant. There came to the soldier a momentary idea of scribbling a warning on a page of his pocket-book and leaving this on the sleeper’s breast; but it was quite possible that the first person to read such a document would be Guthrie himself.
He rearranged the plaid carefully, and stood for a moment longer looking at the fugitive where he lay at his feet, his head sunk in the dried fern. And he remembered the hut at Kinlochiel last summer, where he had done much the same thing. He had talked somewhat earlier on that occasion, had he not, of obligation and repayment; well, he had more than repaid. Ewen Cameron owed him his life—owed it him, very likely, twice over. Yet Keith was conscious again that no thought of obligation had drawn him to dash in front of those muskets yesterday, nor had the idea of a debt really brought him back now. What then? . . . Absurd! He was a man who prided himself on being unencumbered with friends. Moreover, Ewen Cameron was an enemy.
It was strange, then, with what reluctance, with what half-hopes, half-apprehensions, he got into the saddle and rode away under the paling stars, leaving his enemy to rescue or capture; very strange, since that enemy was likewise a rebel, that he should so greatly have desired the former.