Books: Highland Ballad
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Christopher Leadem >> Highland Ballad
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There could be no thought of flight, in any case. A weapon, albeit a
treacherous one, had been placed within his reach, in the form of
Stephen Purceville. He must find a way to use it. With no clear plan,
but not without hope, he determined to bide his time, and watch for
some opportunity to ambush and subdue the guard.
He did not have to wait long. Apparently the officer had determined to
have a look at all the rooms. For after first checking those on the
main level, he was heard just below, as he put his boot to the first
rung of the ladder-stair, and began to climb.
Startled into action Michael leapt from the bed, and when the man's
face appeared above the level of the floor, kicked it squarely with
the flat of his foot.
He had not envisioned the consequences. Perhaps in fear he had struck
too hard; perhaps the man had thrown himself backward in sudden shock.
Whatever the reason, his body was sent hurtling back and down, and
crashed in a terrible angle against the joining of wall and floor
below. The man was killed instantly, his neck broken.
Stepping back from the opening, Michael pulled on his boots with a
trembling hand, trying to disbelieve what his eyes had just shown him.
But when he climbed down to examine his foe, all uncertainty left him.
No breath, no pulse. No life.
An anguish such as he had never known overcame him. By his own hand, a
human life was ended.
With hot tears stinging him, he gently lifted the body and carried it
to his mother's bed. His only thought, irrational as it may have been,
was to lay the man more comfortably, and block from his mind the
horrible contortion in which he had found him. This done, he staggered
toward the cold hearth as if for shelter, arms crossed before him to
block out the world.
But the world would not go away. Almost as soon as he entered the main
room he heard a muffled gasp, and the scrape of a wooden chair being
pushed back in alarm.
Michael lowered his arms in dismay, not remembering. He saw before him
an English officer, bound tightly to a stiff upright chair, and gagged
with a twisted length of black cloth. His senses told him he was
looking at Stephen Purceville, but his mind was too dazed to take it
in. In that moment he only knew that it was a man, like himself.
"I didn't mean to kill him," he choked. "I just wanted to knock him
out, and take his weapon."
Having said this Michael steadied somewhat, and tried to force himself
back to the present. With no clearer motive than to relieve the
discomfort of the other---his enemy, he knew---he loosened and removed
the gag.
Still Purceville could not gather himself to speak. All his life, he
had been the one to hold another powerless before him. To be so bound,
and at the mercy of an unknown Highlander---who by the look of him was
not altogether rational---terrified him. But at last pride goaded him
to words.
"Who are you?" he demanded. "What are you going to do with me?"
And with this, like the tolling of a bell, Michael saw the situation
laid out clearly before him. And into focus, doubly sharp, came the
memories of a lifetime of injustice:
The seizure of his father's home and property, the impoverished
conditions to which he was unused, and the contaminated well that had
taken his life. Then the War, the Battle, and the Stockade. And he
remembered, too, that the English held prisoner his nearest and
dearest, in some wretched place called the Tower, where they were no
doubt abject and afraid.
And though he couldn't hate to violence any man, now that the
soldier's fall had shown him the fragility of all human life. . .pride
he could feel, and anger. Roughly opening his shirt, he pulled it down
across his shoulder, then turned his back to show the numbers branded
there.
"What does this
tell you?" he demanded in turn.
"You were a prisoner," said Stephen. "I'm sorry. You're a free man,
now..... Look, you can't kill me. There's no reason---"
"What in Hell do you mean, free?"
The Englishman could not understand the vehemence with which the word
was spoken. "All prisoners of war have been pardoned. The word arrived
yesterday, with the new Secretary. You have only to turn yourself in,
and renounce your former cause..... Reconciliation."
"You're lying," said Michael desperately. "You're like your father. .
. you're lying
!"
"No. On my mother's grave, I swear it."
Then to his bewilderment, Stephen saw the man take his head in both
hands, and fall to his knees with a tortured cry. At length the worn
face looked up, and it was neither joy nor relief, but unutterable
sorrow that was written there. Almost a whisper.
"Then why. Why, in God's name, were you so Hell-bound to capture us?"
Purceville hesitated, fearful of another outburst. But the answer was
so obvious. "A last minute power play. You know. Politics."
And indeed another outburst came. Trembling with rage Michael stormed
to the lifeless hearth, and smashed his boot-heel against it.
"GOD DAMN YOU TO HELL!" he cried. "You, and this bloody world you've
made for yourselves! My cousin is dead because of your politics
. The man in the next room is dead, and I am a murderer..... Aahh!
Jesus!"
Stunned by the power of the man's emotions, and fearing for the
consequences, Stephen all but begged.
"It was an accident. I'll testify on your behalf. Look, it's not the
end---"
"No! Not for you and me. We're the lucky ones. We're left to go on
fighting." Michael brought his gaze back to earth, knowing his words
would never reach the younger man. But still they must be spoken.
"Can't you see, Purceville? When men hold in their hands the fate of
nations, there's no room for whim, or politics. Don't you see that
every time your King rolls angrily in his bed, a thousand lives are
swept away?
"You! You took away our land, our dignity, and gave us nothing in
return but the butt of your muskets. Do you wonder that it came to
war? Then for years those of us with the courage to resist you were
called `traitors', and hunted down like dogs. Now you say we are
prisoners of war, and all we have to do is walk away." He paused,
overwhelmed by the thought.
"Can a man walk away from his past? Can the cold stones of the grave
lose their shadow, and rotted flesh grow whole again to walk with the
living? God damn
you! We stand atop a pile of bodies four miles deep, over which you
would hold a pretty picnic. And ten times ten thousand left to grieve.
"Dear God, I cannot look at you, for the very sight is bile in my
throat. When ignorance leads the blind, how black shall the blindness
be?"
He walked out of the room, with all feeling gone from his soul.
Twenty-Seven
The widow Scott opened her eyes in the chill hour of dawn. Indirect
sunlight filtered through the high window, silhouetting the statued
form of her niece, who stood in silence before it. At her side the
girl held something metal that gleamed dully. Her eyes looked out
unseeing.
"Mary? What's that in your hand?"
Slowly, as from a distance. "I've got to kill him."
Once more Anne Scott felt herself in the presence of a will, a force
that was beyond swaying. But she knew that she too had a part in the
unfolding drama, and she would not watch idly as her niece destroyed
herself.
"Because of your mother? You think that you must follow her down the
bitter road---"
"You speak of what you cannot imagine."
There was no answering obsession. The woman did not try. "How will you
do it?" she asked simply.
"They did not think to search us." Mary held up the slender blade that
the witch had sewn into a fold of her dress, then forgotten.
"Surely that, of itself, would not kill a man."
"Human excrement makes a very effective blood poison." All said
evenly, without emotion or remorse, without living movement of any
kind.
... "Mary. Your mother left something for you." At this she turned,
like a sleepwalker disturbed by the calling of her true name. "Stephen
brought me this note. Her dying words."
"A forgery," she stammered, "meant to dissuade me."
"No," said Anne Scott firmly. "After twenty-nine years, I ought to
know my sister's hand."
"Don't come any closer." She raised the knife halfheartedly. "I don't
want to see it." But Anne Scott continued forward, held out the folded
sheet.
Mary's left hand could not stop the right. She took the page and held
it open against the angled sill. She read.
A single tear escaped her, then another, till at last she dropped the
blade and leaned heavily back against the stone. The tortured grip had
managed but five words, the last broken and trailing, but undeniable.
Mary,
I love you. Forgive
Anne Scott moved closer, and took the forlorn head to her shoulder.
Mary did not resist. She only wept, unable for a time to speak.
"But, if I do not avenge her. . .then her story is truly ended. She
lived, and died, for nothing. Oh, it is too terrible."
"No, Mary. Her life, and broken love, brought about your life, and a
love that is real. You must never forget that." The widow paused,
understanding at last.
"Listen to me, girl. You carry a part of her in yourself: in your
flesh, and in your seed. The story never ends, it only changes
characters. And those who have left something beautiful behind them,
never die. They live on in the thoughts, the hearts, the very lives of
those who loved them." And the woman found that she too was crying,
the most profound tears of her life. For in this, most unlikely of
moments, she had seen beyond the grave, and touched the face of God.
"When you bear a child of your own, you will understand just how very
much that means. For now, my sad Mary, just cry. Cry, and love her."
"Oh, Anne, I'm so cold." And she began to shiver, her trembling flesh
once more asserting its will to live. Anne Scott took their two
blankets, joined them together, and sat with her closely huddled in
the straw. Both wept, and held each other, knowing fully and without
illusion, what it was to be a woman.
Twenty-Eight
Life would not go away. There was no room for fatalism or self-pity,
and he knew it. Nothing else mattered, nothing was real, until Mary
and his mother were set free.
Michael put on his coat, and climbed down from the loft. Going to his
mother's room, he unbuckled the fallen officer's sword, and put it
about his own waist. Then he took the man's pistol and slipped it
under his belt.
Moving to the kitchen, he filled a dipper with water from the urn, and
walked with it into the main room. By now the morning was full, and
sunlight pushed against the heavy curtains. The two men saw each other
clearly.
"I thought you might be wanting this," said the Highlander. Stephen
Purceville eyed the dipper, then the man, suspiciously.
"I'm not going to poison you, Purceville." Stephen's eyes then shifted
to the pistol. "I'm not going to shoot you, either. If you'll drink
this, and promise not to try anything foolish, I'll untie you as well.
We've got to come to an understanding."
"First tell me who you are," said the Englishman. "And what you're
doing here."
"My name doesn't matter. All you need know is that I'm a friend to
Mary, and the widow Scott. My one concern now is to get them out of
your father's prison. Here, drink." And again he held forward the
dipper.
"Why is that so important to you?"
"Because I want you to know where your sustenance is coming from. And
your freedom, if you'll help me."
"But why---"
"For the love of God, man, drink! I cannot untie you while I am
holding this. Time enough for talk while we dig the grave..... For
your comrade
, Purceville. I don't intend to kill you. Just remember I've a gun and
sword both, and know how to use them."
Reluctantly Stephen drank, then followed the Highlander's every move
as he untied him.
But if he had harbored any thoughts of attacking him once he was
freed, the painful stiffness of his limbs dispelled them. There was
nothing for it now but to play along, and keep watching for a
chance..... But in spite of all he could not fully submerge a feeling
of relief at being set free, and a raw animal gratitude as they moved
to the kitchen, and he drank his fill of water from the urn.
With the pistol in his hand but not pointed, Michael led him next to
the small, attached toolshed behind the cottage. Pointing inside it to
a shovel, he instructed the Englishman to take it up, then walk ahead
of him slowly to the gravesite of his clan.
"You're not going to bury him here?" said Stephen as they reached it.
"Yes, I am. He may have been an honorable man, and he may not. But he
died among us, and among us he will lie."
"Us?"
"Master Purceville, you have a nasty habit of questioning the
inevitable. We are in a place of burial, because a man is dead. I am a
Scot with a pistol, and you are a Brit with a spade. There is the
earth; now dig
. I will ask the questions." Muttering, but having no choice, Stephen
did as he was told.
Michael leaned back wearily against a tree. And shaking off the
melancholy of both the place and the task at hand, he forced his mind
to think. He must unravel the mystery of the man before him.
So speaking with the half-truths and feigned ignorance which had
become habitual with him among strangers, he began.
"The first question is simply put, and simply answered. I expect
nothing less than the truth....." Nothing. "I have heard it said that
Mary is your half-sister. Is that true?"
Bluntly. "Yes."
"You have been less than kind to her."
Stephen felt the color rising at the back of his neck. "I didn't know,
until a few days ago."
"And how do you feel towards her now?"
"That's none of your affair!" he cried, whirling angrily. He would
have advanced, but Michael straightened and pointed the gun squarely
at his chest.
"That's enough. Save your anger for the digging." The other relented,
but did not turn away.
"Very well," continued Michael. "I will assume from the heat of your
answer that you care for her, and perhaps are not altogether happy
that she has been locked away."
"Why in Hell do you think I'm here?" he snapped. "You bloody savages
think you're the only ones to stand up for something? I stood up for
Mary, and look what became of it." He threw down the shovel in
disgust. "Do you think I'm glad at what's happened? I promised to
protect her! My father will pay
for what he's done to me."
Michael watched the younger man's face intently, searching for any
sign of deceit. He found none.
It seemed almost too good to be true. Not only might this man's
emotions be turned toward freeing the women. . .but by all appearances
he was as shallow and guileless as his father was deep and cunning.
But he knew better than to hope too much, or to show his true
feelings, at all.
"Well. Leaving `bloody savages' aside for the moment, perhaps we are
not as far apart as I feared." He lowered the weapon, leaned back
against the tree. "Calm yourself, and perhaps we can talk as
reasonable men.
"All right," he continued. "Here, then, is what I'm offering. Your
freedom, in exchange for the safe deliverance of Mary and the widow
Scott. In this you may serve me as ally, or hostage. The choice is
yours."
"If you want them back," said Stephen, "then let me go now. Give me
Stubb's horse, and a weapon to protect myself. All I have to do is
reach Earl Arthur, and tell him my story. My father will lose all
power over their fate, and a good many other things as well."
"You will forgive me," replied Michael, "if I am not as confident of
English justice as you are. After they are rescued, you may do what
you like to hurt your father. Not before."
Stephen looked hard at him, first in anger, then in disbelief.
"You're not serious. You can't expect to win them from the Tower by
stealth? It's over two hundred feet high. Inside the castle are scores
of armed soldiers, with a thousand more garrisoned less than two miles
away. We don't even know which cell they're in, or if they're still
together."
Michael grimaced, releasing a heavy breath. Though in his heart he
knew the grim realities, to hear them spoken was still disquieting.
"I do not say it will be easy, or without danger. I only know that
between you and I. . .we've got to find a way." He stiffened. "Look at
me, Purceville, square in the eye. As you love your sister, and on
your word as an Englishman, will you help me to free her? For I tell
you, in the eyes of God we can do no less."
Stephen did not answer at first, but stood returning his captor's firm
gaze. "Why do you ask me to swear as an Englishman? What makes you
think any promise will bind me?"
"Because I know that's important to you. And because I believe that in
spite of yourself, deep down, you are an honorable man." The other
turned away. "Listen
to me. Sooner or later you've got to choose between good and evil,
right and wrong. There's no middle ground. And the line between them's
got nothing to do with country, or birthright, but the way a man acts
in the role, the place he's been given. I'm asking you now, not as a
Highlander to a Red-coat, a commoner to nobility, or any other
distinction you care to draw. I'm asking you as a man, to another man.
Won't you help me, in what we both know is right?"
"You're very naive."
"No. God damn it, Purceville, listen! No man has greater reason to
hate and mistrust than I have. You've taken everything: my youth, my
health, my home, and now the only ones I love in all the world. But I
refuse
to hate you. I refuse to stoop so low, to believe in so little, to
sell my honor and my hope for that bastard emotion. There is no
greater defiance than that.
"Think! Have you never loved someone you should have hated? Or held on
to something you were told you must surrender? We share the same
needs, the worst of us, as we share the same flesh. Stephen. You and
I, we've got
to trust each other. We've got to get them out."
"While you hold the gun, and I dig the grave?"
"No." Michael opened his coat, and tucked the pistol once more beneath
his belt. "Come back to the house with me now---don't try anything
foolish---and I'll find you something to eat. By rights I should dig
this grave myself."
"And the horse?"
"I will use it to bear the body, and keep it close to me at all times.
I said trust, Stephen, not stupidity. Trust isn't blind, any more than
faith is, if it's real."
"Faith in what? In God? You're dreaming."
"Call it God, or Life, or anything else you like. I haven't given up
on it. Because no matter how close I've come to it, Death has never
had the final word. My flesh still lives, and therefore my hope. Maybe
I am dreaming. But without dreams a man's got nothing, nothing at
all."
Stephen looked down, undecided.
"So what's to keep me from walking out, except the threat of a shot in
the back?"
"I won't shoot you. If you want to walk out into hostile country, a
wanted man, that's up to you. But I wouldn't give a ha'penny for your
life, if you run afoul of that man Ballard. At least you know, or you
should, that I'm an honorable man."
"You speak of honor," said Stephen, "and trust. And yet you won't even
tell me your name. Don't I deserve that much?"
"I will tell you that when we have set them free, along with anything
else you like. I don't ask you to understand that, just accept it.
Anonymity is my one defense. That's the way it is."
... "I need time to think," said Stephen finally.
"And you shall have it. After I finish here I've got a long ride ahead
of me, to make preparations. You shall have most of the day. But
whatever you decide, we must be gone from here tonight. If I know
human nature, your Ballard won't send anyone to relieve his comrade,
or come himself, till tomorrow at least. Be we can't take that
chance."
"And what if he comes back today? You're not going to bind me, and
leave me here without a weapon?"
"I'm not going to bind you at all. As for a weapon, you've got
surprise. And you've got something far more lethal. The human mind,
and will to survive, are not to be underestimated." He shaded his eyes
and looked up, saw the sun already approaching the noon. "Enough of
this. You've got to eat, and then think. I've got to work."
Without further speech, they set out for the cottage. But as Stephen
passed the grave of Michael Scott, he could not help but wonder at the
identity of his worn but indomitable deliverer. And looking back to
the place where Stubb would lie, who but a day before had walked and
breathed, been proud, and stubborn, and afraid like himself, he felt a
cold shudder run through him.
For he, too, had been given a taste of Death.
Twenty-Nine
Michael rode in full daylight toward the sea. It was a little used
road, linking the fishing village of Kroe to the uplands; and if what
Purceville said was true, he was, for the moment, no longer a wanted
man. But he had little choice in any case. Riding against the
sea-winds at night would be the death of him, and plans must be laid
for the twilight after next.
Even so, he could not help feeling apprehensive as he slowed his horse
to a canter, and turned down the single brick street of the town,
overlooking the bay, then the sea beyond. As he passed through its
center---small shops, a public house, plain, two story homes joined at
the shoulder---he found himself looking down and straight ahead,
subconsciously drawing his shoulders together as if to fade into every
shadow, afraid of every eye. James Talbert's phrase, "skulking
thieves," came back to him. At the same moment he passed a sturdy lad
of fifteen or thereabouts, who looked up at him with a fearless eye,
almost mocking.
And all at once his fugitive life became intolerable. For in the boy
he had seen himself, half a lifetime before.
With sudden resolution he checked his horse, and sat up straight and
proud in the saddle. Shading his eyes he looked out to the sea, and
beyond. Somewhere, across the unfathomable waters, there had to be a
better life: a new land, where he could start again.
He would never submit to Imperial rule; this he knew with absolute
certainty. And he would not live like this. What had begun in his mind
as a means of short-term escape---fleeing the Castle by sea---now
branched out into thoughts of a new home, a new world, where the skies
were freer and a man could still dream.
He turned back again to the hills of his beloved Scotland, the land of
his birth. A great sorrow filled him, and an ache that was almost
physical gripped his chest, for a dream that had died, and a home that
was lost.
But the past was gone, and there was no returning. He must look to the
future. He must live free or die.
The lad looked back at him, startled by the change. "Master," he said
plainly. "Who are you?" The Highlander breathed deep the sea air, then
replied.
"I am Michael James Scott, a proud veteran of the war against tyranny,
and a man who will hide no more." With that he gave rein to his
fretting animal, and rode openly to the fisherman's cottage.
The old man had seen him coming, but remained smoking placidly as
before. There was much here that he did not understand, and he had
many questions. But he knew enough not to worry himself, or to act in
haste. Life, in the form of young `Jamie', was coming straight toward
him, and would no doubt make itself clear.
Drawing up to the low stone shelter, Michael dismounted and tethered
his horse, then strode quickly up the steps. The eyes of the two men
met, and though everything had changed, nothing had changed between
them. Michael was still in need, and the fisherman was still willing
to help.
"Can we go inside and talk?" he said. The old man nodded.
Again they sat before the fire, grateful for its warmth, and for the
strong walls around them. Michael had laid out the facts as he
understood them, told his friend all that he knew. And now he waited
on his judgment, seeking aid and counsel alike.
"Well," said the other, after mulling over all that he had heard. "I'd
say it's more than clear we've got to get them out. . .and I'd have to
say you're right, not trusting their fate to the English. There's good
men among `em, it's true. But when there's a struggle for power
between adamant men, innocents are going to be hurt, and conscience
swept aside.
"On one thing you can rest assured," he went on. "I'll be at the cove
with a skiff, if and when you need me, with my boat anchored not far
off. I'll move in at nightfall tomorrow, prepared to stay till dawn,
then do the same the next night if need be. I know the place well
enough, as I know most every coast from Skye to Inverness. It'll be a
tricky sail coming out---with the wind against us. But I'll warrant
the wind's been against us some years now, eh?"
"Thank you," said Michael. "It means a lot."
"Aye, but that's the easy part. First we've got to get them out."
Again he puffed on his pipe thoughtfully.
"Well then. I've seen that tower from a distance, and know the castle
by reputation alone. It was built centuries ago as a defense against
the Vikings, and word has it it's never been taken. It was built to
withstand far greater force than any you or I could hope to bring
against it." The mariner paused, considering.
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