The Master of Stair/Book 1/Chapter 7

HE three Macdonalds trudged in silence over the flat moors beyond Loch Awe. Behind them lay Kilchurn Castle, black against the vapors of Ben Cruachan, the mist-soaked standard of England hanging red and gold above it.

The heavy gray sky seemed to hang low enough to be touched with an uplifted arm; there was no wind; a few flakes of snow fell slowly. Makian walked a little ahead of his two sons, and reflected on the absolute failure of his attempt to wring money from Jock Campbell: it had been a bold attempt and there was little wonder that it had not succeeded. Whether they took the oaths or no, Makian was very sure that they would not get a guinea of the English money; it was a bitter wrong, he thought, that the government should have chosen for its agent a man with whom so many clans were at feud. He meant to take the oaths: the letters Ronald had delivered had frightened him as well as others; he was shrewd and wily; the tribes favorable to King William; the Frasers, the Macnaughtens and Grants had warned him that submission would be the wiser part.

He knew he would have his sons against him, their hate of the Campbells overweighed every consideration of prudence he could bring forward. He decided he would wait: there was time yet. Let some of the others come in first, let Keppoch of Glenroy, Glengarry or Lochiel lend their pride before he lowered his.

Ian and Ronald followed him in silence; though Makian had condoned his son's saving of Breadalbane as a piece of prudence that had preserved their lives, Ian felt bitter about it and turned a sullen face on his father.

Ronald took no heed of any; his blue eyes were gazing blankly ahead; he walked in an absorbed gravity with his mouth set sternly.

They had crossed the moor and were entering a ravine between the hills, when Makian stopped, and looking back, motioned ahead.

A man on horseback with a following on foot was coming toward them.

They were near enough for the Macdonalds to distinguish the tartan of the Camerons, and the three lifted their bonnets as they drew close. The horseman raised his hat. He was a magnificent figure, bearing the dress and manners of a Lowlander, though about him was a Cameron plaid, and he spoke in pure Gaelic.

"Well met, Macdonald of Glencoe," he said, with a pleasant smile. "You come from Kilchurn?"

"Yes," frowned Makian. "And you, Ewen Cameron?"

The other laughed. "I go there," he answered. "A tacksman of yours brought me a letter from King James—I must thank ye for the warning it contained," he added. "I go now to twist what money I can wring out of my slippery cousin, Breadalbane."

"Will ye take the oaths?" demanded Ian Macdonald.

Sir Ewen Cameron of Lochiel laughed again, and patted the neck of his black horse. "It were the wiser thing for ye to do," he said. "Will you not profit by your own warning?"

Ronald broke in:

"Nay, we will take no oaths to a Campbell."

Lochiel's sharp eyes traveled keenly over the three faces; his own fell to gravity.

"Why, you would play the fool," he said. "These letters are from Caryl, an accredited agent of King James, and His Majesty gives us leave to take the oath to the Dutchman—and to break it."

Ronald's face grew harder.

"It is no question of the kings—I'd see either of them hanged for a gold piece—it's a question of Jock Campbell of Breadalbane," he said sullenly.

Lochiel, bred in cities and used to courts, smiled at the young Highlander's unreasoning venom. "Ye have stubborn stuff there," he said to Makian. "But let me warn ye—take the oaths before it be too late."

Macdonald was flattered by the friendliness of so great a man, but was too proud to show it; and sore from his recent encounter with Breadalbane, spoke with an assurance he was far from feeling.

"I am not afraid," he said loftily. "I will consider about taking the oaths—and ye, Ewen Cameron, will ye be the first to come in?"

Lochiel drew himself up haughtily and his dark cheek flushed.

"Nay, 'tis a point of honor with me—I will not be the first," he answered. "But my tacksmen are free to do as they choose, and my tacksmen understand me. Farewell."

He touched his horse up and the Camerons moved on.

As Lochiel, haughty and splendid, passed the Macdonalds, he turned a little in the saddle and smiled in the winning way that had won King Charles's heart.

"I will not be the first, Macdonald o' Glencoe, for my honor's sake," he said. "But I would not be the last, for my head's sake—look to the warning."

His gloved hand touched his black horse, and the Camerons passed on over the wet moor toward Kilchurn.

Ronald scowled after him; Ian cursed impatiently, but Makian resolved that his prudence would do well to take the hint his pride had received ungraciously.

Before Lochiel was out of sight they were on their way again.

The snow began to fall faster; it was late afternoon and the light fading to a heavy grayness; against the hard color of the sky the flakes showed a dazzling white, and in the hollows of the rocks they began to lie in tiny drifts. Beside a narrow cave that looked full on the ravine, the Macdonalds halted.

In the shelter of an overhanging rock, Ian kindled with some difficulty a fire; and Makian produced provisions from his wallet, and laid them in silence before his sons.

Ronald sat over the thin smoky flames, morose and sullen; he pushed away the food offered with the back of his hand, and sat staring over the blank landscape, while the others ate. But he was not left long alone. Presently Ian, warmed with his food and forgetting his grievance, came and flung himself beside him. Ronald eyed him coldly, then turned his head away. He was desperately out of humor and had no care about the hiding of it.

Ian, in every respect the same to look on, save that he was darker, rougher in make and fiercer in manner, was yet of a nature more simple, more easily pleased if as easily angered; secretly, he greatly admired his younger brother. He glanced over his shoulder at Makian, sitting placid in the mouth of the cave with blank blue eyes considering mischief, and spoke in a whisper to Ronald.

"Did ye mark Lochiel's coat?" he said eagerly. "With the gold braid on it—and his satin vest and gloves like the King? Lochiel's a great man."

Ronald gave no answer.

"And his sword," continued Ian. "An Andrea Ferrara with a basket hilt—"

"I did not mark it," answered Ronald without looking round, but Ian was not to be repulsed.

"Macdonald o' Keppoch has a red coat like that—of the fine cloth with gilt buttons—I saw it when I was in Glenroy—Keppoch got it when he sacked Inverary and he carries it about with him, valuing it greatly." His eyes shone with a fierce envy. "I would have a coat like that, and boots with buckles and fringes."

"Lochiel bought those clothes in King Charlie's time—they're years old," returned Ronald scornfully.

But Ian cast a wistful glance at his weather-stained plaid. "Glengarry has an Andrea Ferrara," he said, with eager blue eyes on his brother.

"Let him keep it," returned Ronald shortly. "I am content with my bow and my dirk."

"You are in an ill mood," said Ian. "I remember when ye could not sleep for longings such as these—and when ye found nothing o' wearing apparel in Jock Campbell's burning house ye raged extremely."

Ronald turned fiercely.

"Do not talk to me o' Jock Campbell!" he cried.

"Ye did not maybe mark how he was decked in satin and velvet like a woman," Ian interrupted.

"I had him under my sword—I had my hand on his wizened throat—when you, you fool, pulled me away. 'Tis you who, for shame, should not talk o' Jock Campbell!"

Ronald flushed and his eyes darkened.

"Why,—'for shame'?" he questioned hotly.

Ian flung up his head with a laugh.

"Because the woman cozened ye—it was not for any motives of prudence, but to please the woman that ye saved his life."

There was a little pause; peering through the gathering dusk Ian marked his brother's face grow white, and he laughed again, good-naturedly enough.

"Will ye deny it?" he asked. "And little thanks ye got—'I would kill ye,' she said, and showed her teeth like a cat."

Ronald stared at him as if he had not heard. "Is it not an awful thing," he said very low, "that she should be Jock Campbell's wife?"

"Do ye care?" asked Ian incredulously. "’Tis an ordinary woman—and I like not green eyes; also she is false to her finger-tips—like a Campbell."

"Ah, yes," cried Ronald wildly, "she is false and doubly false. She has the trick of smiling when she lies—there is a poison in her breath that doth infect her kisses with a deadly sweetness, and in her eyes a witchcraft lurks to drive the blood too fast for bearing—I would that she or I were dead!"

A low wind was abroad; it blew the ice-cold snowflakes hissing into the lazy fire, and shook the tassels of the firs against the darkening trail of clouds.

Ian drew himself up in silence; Makian was asleep behind them, close wrapped in his plaid. It was too dark to see more than the outline of his figure.

The vast forms of the distant mountains were fast absorbed into the general grayness; it grew colder and a great sense of awe came with the dark as if an unseen presence whispered: "Hush!"

"I would be fighting," said Ronald suddenly through the dusk, "I would be in the press and sweep of arms, the lift and music of the battle-cries—or I would lie dead and careless of the eagles that pluck at my heart—smiling perhaps—not heedful of the pain that stabs there now!"

"But ye have had your fill o' fighting," said Ian, shuddering under the sting of the wind. "At Killicrankie—when Dundee died. I have need to repine, who stayed guarding Glencoe while ye fought."

Ronald's voice came in answer, melodiously.

"It was most glorious. My God! I would give ten years of peace for such another fight—but what mattered the victory? Dundee was slain." His voice fell to gloom. "I loved Dundee, though he was a Lowlander—this Saxon Caryl that I've told ye of: he had a face like his, a girl's face, always calm. I would have died for Dundee. He was a great gentleman, full of courtliness."

He rested his head on his hand and gazed sadly at the slow moving clouds.

"The day before the battle," he went on, "he called us to his tent: Keppoch, Glengarry, Lochiel and us—he was writing a letter to the Duke o' Gordon when we came in. 'How do ye spell the name o' yonder castle?' he asked; Lochiel told him. 'That's Castle Blair,' and he laughed and said he had little learning. He told us his plans as he sealed his letter, and how we were to meet Mackay's men: he was very confident. 'I was not born to be forgotten,' he said smiling.

"There was a spy-glass on his table, a wonderful thing; as we left I asked leave to look at it and he showed me how it worked, most patient and most courteously.

"With the first daylight we were in our ranks; the mist hung over the pass like the standard o' the Highlands; we could see no further than each other, but we could hear the rattle o' the Lowland guns as they dragged them up the pass. They fired, and hideous was the sound of it. I saw a Cameron drop, close to Lochiel, and Glengarry wince from his place. We were new to the muskets, but we did what we might; the mist rose, but up the glen the cannon smoke rolled thick and white, we could not see. Once I looked up and saw the sky overhead was clear and blue; it seemed a strange thing and turned me giddy. The sun began to glitter down our muskets. Dundee came up at the head of his Lowland horse; he spoke to Lochiel and I saw him strain forward and look down the pass; then he gave the word. We threw down our plaids and Lochiel tossed his shoes aside; we gave the war-cry in a great shout. Up from the smoking glen came a shaking cheer in answer, and Lochiel laughed up at Dundee. 'The thing is done, my lord. Do men who are going to win shout so?'

"'Charge!' cried Dundee; there was a great flush on his face.

"We flung aside the muskets and were out with the dirks. I would have charged into the cannon's mouth for I felt immortal, but as I rushed I fell and the flying feet of the Macdonalds bruised me to the earth. I could not rise. I saw Dundee motion to his men, but they hesitated—the Lowland cowards hesitated.

"Dundee rose in the saddle; he lifted his hat and the sun glittered, very brightly, on his hair; from where I lay I shouted at the cowards behind him, then a cloud of smoke hid him. I struggled to my feet; the air was full of confusion and cries of victory; the Lowlanders were running like sheep. I saw the gunners struggling in the press, the standard o' Lochiel flying through the smoke, and, midst it all, Dundee's black horse dash riderless down the glen!"

Ronald stopped abruptly, with a shudder of excitement at the remembrance of that day. Ian, thrilled to forgetfulness of the cold and the dead fire, waited with eyes eager through the dark.

"One came up to me," continued Ronald, "and asked me for my plaid. 'Dundee is dying,' he said; I followed to where he lay. Dunfermline held him off the ground; they took my plaid and laid it under him to keep him off the heather.

"'How goes the day?' he asked faintly.

"Dunfermline answered, very white: 'Well, for King James, but I am sorry for ye, Jock.'

"'If 'tis well for the King, 'tis the less matter for me,' said Dundee, but there was an awful look in his eyes and I think he thought of his wife and the boy he had never seen. He did not speak again; I think he would not; he turned his face away and died as the victory shout rose up the glen.

"Dunfermline covered him with my plaid. 'The war is over, he said in a broken voice. 'Dundee is dead.'

"I helped to carry him to his grave, and I took his spy-glass from his sash; 'twas broken with his fall, but I kept it for rememberance. I loved Dundee. Would I lay with him in his nameless grave in Blair Athol!"

His voice sank miserably into silence, and there was no sound.

The clouds drifted apart over a snowy moon; there was a sense of utter desolation abroad, the cold peace of loneliness.

Ronald rose and walked away from his brother toward the moonlight with the wind cool in his face; he shook with a stormy agony and cried out low and passionately:

"Would I had died with Dundee before I had been poisoned with love o' thee, Margaret Campbell!"