Corrag (31 page)

The snow came down. The snow was on his hair, and his plaid. He said,
what do we do? We have no arms—or not as they have. And now it snows…

Go. Flee
.

Flee? In this weather? It will kill folk. Perhaps just the men will flee. The women can stay for they surely won’t be hurt…

No—all of them. Take all of them.

Women? And bairns?

Yes. Go. Make for Appin. I don’t think a single living soul is safe, tonight.

He stepped back. He looked at the ground and made a sound like he was tired of this, of me—like he did not trust me at all, after all. He turned his back. He put his hand in his hair, and I thought
please listen…

There was a moment which was my breath, and no other sound.

Yes,
he said.
Yes. You talk of what the heart knows? I’ve felt this trouble in me since they came—here,
and he felt his chest.
They have smiled, and sang, and we’ve fed them, and yet…I’ll find my brother. I’ll tell him, and I’ll go to Inverrigan and listen at the door.

Waste no time. Get as many out as you can.

Yes.
He stared at me like I was new, like we had never met before. He was all eyes.

I must go.

He stepped forwards.
What? Where to?

To Inverlochy,
I told him.
I’ll run there. You say the Colonel Hill is kindly, and a friend of the clans, so I will tell him. I will tell him they are killing the people of Glencoe, and he will come back with me with horses, and men, and save us. I must go.

I wanted to say
be safe to him. Do not die.
I wanted to speak of how I felt, which was huge, and beyond all words. But I said nothing.

He spoke instead. He called to me, as I set off to the north. He said,
I will see you again, Corrag.
And like he had had faith in my words, and my truth, or like he also had the second sight in him, I believed his.

I smiled, briefly.

Then I ran.

I ran. I ran.

Take my hand? I am running. I am sitting in a cell, in chains, but I run. I run north to Inverlochy. I run to save their lives.

T
OMORROW
I will tell you of the Glencoe massacre. The dead, and the living. Him. Me.

H
OLD
my hand? I am running. All my life, I have run.

S
ir. Mr Leslie. Who she saw, coming.

Do not sit on the stool? Crouch with me. Crouch on the floor, and wrap my hands and my chains in your hands. This is a fearful telling. What I will speak of is such wickedness that I am afraid of speaking it. I’ve not breathed a word, till now. I’ve kept it inside.

You’re so warm. See?

Once, once, you were so offended by my dirt and my eyes that you did not sit. You eyed that stool like it was a trick. Remember? And now you settle on straw, by my bars.

We all change,
I told Alasdair—
but not our hearts.

Not them.

I
HAVE
never run faster than I did, that night. Even in snow, with drifts that were shoulder-high to me, I had never run faster in all my life. I was all legs and arms, like a spider. I was wings, like a bird, and when I startled a hind that was crouching by rocks she ran alongside me, until she grew tired. I ran faster than her, in the falling snow.

There was no wind, at first. When I came to the ferryboat at Ballachulish, and the man rowed me across, the snow came down thickly, and straight. It came onto my hair and nose and hands, and the loch itself was dark, metal-coloured. I said to him
go, now. When you have dropped me on the other side you must flee. Do you hear me?
He stared. He had a kind face.

I fled. I climbed ashore, and ran north, and I ran so fast that the air I breathed had snow on it, in it, and so I had snow in my mouth and lungs. I thought of my mare. How fast she would have carried me. How white she would have been in the falling white.

So I ran. I ran from the water and I ran through the hills. I ran through fields and over ice, and I ran, and ran, and I did not know the way to Inverlochy—or my head did not—but my heart knew, my second sight said
north,
and
this way,
and
turn left at this drifting
. And so after some long, long, white hours of running, I came down through snowy trees to see the fort before me. It was such a good sight. It was the best sight, and it made me hopeful, and I slowed. I thought,
I am here, I have made it. All will be well from this moment on.
The fort was very black. It had torches staked by its gates, and lights in its thin, slit windows that warmed me just by seeing them. As I came to its gates I thought I could hear the wood hiss as it burned, that I could smell meat cooking, and I thought for a little time
be calm, now—be happy
as I was here now, at Inverlochy, whose governor had promised to protect the Glencoe men.
You have done well, Corrag
and in the yard of the garrison I saw many soldiers gathering with pikes and muskets, and I held on to the bars of the gate, pressed my forehead against it.

I called out.

The guardsman approached me very briskly. He said
what’s your business?
He held a torch up in the snow to see me better and walked forwards, all muffled up and heavy from his damp coat.

Please. I am here to see Colonel John Hill very urgently. It is of grave importance. People are in danger and I am here seeking his help.

I breathed very hard through the bars. He looked on me like I was talking in a whole new tongue, like I made no sense, and I thought
hag
was in him, that he might say
hag
or
witch
. I would not have him say it—not when I needed Colonel Hill, as I did—so I asked again.
Colonel Hill? Very quickly?

The Colonel sees no-one tonight.

I flinched.
No-one? Why not? He will hear me, sir. Go to him and tell him I have a message from Glencoe and he must hear it at once. It’s a very dire matter and he must see me, he has to—I’ve run from there tonight in this weather.
I looked sadly at him.
Please?

His look was different now. It altered as I talked—from one of contempt for me, this bunch of rags at the gate, to a look of proper worry and discomfort so that he looked very quickly into the shadows either side of me and then glanced back at the soldiers who were blowing on their hands.

He said,
Glencoe?

All of Scotland knew its name. I wondered if he thought I might rob him of his purse or pull a musket on him. But I was very small and my hands were holding the bars of the gate very firmly, and I was no threat that I could see.

I said,
Yes. Please tell him.

He was gone, then. I saw his great coat grow lost in the snow as he passed the soldiers with their arms, and in his absence all I could do was stamp my feet and practice in my head what best to speak to Colonel Hill, so I tried the words to myself and shook my hands to warm them, and I saw from the yard a man with a fine overcoat buttoned to the neck was eyes on me, very warily. I eyed him back. His staring was no matter to me now, for I was very certain of Colonel Hill receiving me—a young woman on her own in snow on a night of such foul weather. Colonel Hill was good—the clan said so. They said he understood them, kept his word.

I was calm. But when the torch and frown of the guardsman came back through the white to me he was gruff, strong-worded, and said
Be gone. Like I said, the Colonel is seeing no-one tonight.

None?
This was dreadful. I was open-mouthed, very afraid, and I grasped the bars harder and said
but he must! A terrible thing is going to happen! And is he not a friend of the clans?
But the guardsman spat into the snow, and scowled, and I heard some foul words come from him before he turned and was lost in the snow again. I did not rest, or go. I shook the gates, called
Come back! He must see me!
And when I saw the scowling man would not return for all my hollering and pleading I decided to shout so loudly the Colonel himself somewhere would hear me. Inverlochy was a mighty garrison, I saw that—very big, but not built so soundly that it might keep all noises out. On such a night also when the streets were muffled with the snow and the only men abroad were soldiers who gathered very quietly so I only heard the clink of their pikes on the frozen ground, and their boots also, he would surely hear me by his fire with his supper at his side. So I shouted out his name. I said,
Colonel John Hill! Colonel Hill of Inverlochy! I have come for your assistance! Will you hear me?
Through the snow I shouted.
I have come from Glencoe!

I shouted very much. I screamed
Colonel Hill! Colonel Hill!

Did he hear? I think he did. I think he heard me crying out—that maybe he thought,
is that the wind? Or a ghost?
For he came to the window to see. As I shook the bars, I looked up to a thin, high window in the west tower, which flickered and glowed with a fire’s light. And as I cried out
Colonel Hill
I saw a darkness move across the glow—a man-shaped darkness, and it stood there in the window so that I saw his wig’s silhouette, the shape of his nose. He looked down into the courtyard. He looked at the girl who waited at the gates, calling his name, and I let go of the bars. I stepped back. I felt rushed with fear, for I knew he would not let me in.

He knows,
is what I thought.
He knows what lies ahead.

Which he did. He must have done. For the King’s orders always pass from hand to hand. There are parchments signed, and passed on, and signed, and passed on, and I reckon Colonel Hill found this order on his bureau which said
maul and cut off the branch of Glencoe,
and what could he do? What choice did he have? But sign it? What choice?

I do not blame him. I blame him no more than I blame the hangman who put the rope about Cora, breathed
sorry
to her. I blame him no more than I do the rain, on rainy days, which drowns fledglings in their nests—for it is the clouds that make the rain. It’s not the raindrops’ fault.

So Colonel Hill looked down. He saw me in my rags. He saw the snow thickening, and perhaps he thought,
it is too late.
Or
may God save their souls.
Or
may God save mine
—for they say he was a man of faith, with a good heart, and there was a manner to his silhouette which was sad-looking, and old.

I nodded.

Then I thought
run
—and I turned and ran, back through the snow.

O
N AND
on. I ran back past trees and rocks which had seen me before, and I saw my old footprints in the snow which made sorry—for what good had it served, in coming north? I saw them and said to the ghost of me
turn around turn around. Don’t waste time.

It was the worst of all weather, and the worst of all feelings—to long for a place, to be dreadfully afraid and to want to get home yet for each leg to sink deep into drifts of snow, and the heart panics at such sinking but panic makes it worse by far. I fell fully down. My skirts and cloak were drenched from the snow and stuck to my skin, and I couldn’t see for the blizzarding—I could not hear at all for the wind howling round. I thought of Alasdair. I thought of how he said
what harm could they do us? They are our guests
—and those seemed very gentle words, and wise words, but I’d not believed in them. Even though he’d said them—him, with his freckled hands, his eyes. I loved how he said my name and how he’d held back branches for me as we’d walked, and as I ran through the snow I said over and over
let all be well, let all be well…
I tripped, I cracked ice and fell into pools. I fell against a rock, and struck my jaw, and I tore my skin on thorns so that I bled and left red on the ground. But when we want we find a way, we do, and I said to myself
up! Get up!
—for all I wanted was to be back in Glencoe. I knew trouble was coming. I knew what lay ahead.

Blood is coming,
Gormshuil said.

As I ran, I said
I am hardy. I am winter-born. I will reach the glen before any blade is pulled through flesh, before the byres are emptied
.
Or I will come to the glen and find them all gone—all those I love will have fled, and be safe.
I hoped this so much. And I charged like garrons do. I was mud-shot and blue-skinned. My hair slapped my back as I ran.

I came to the shores of Loch Leven and I saw the boat was gone. There was no ferry, now—so I went east along the bank to the loch’s far end, behind the northern ridge. From there, I knew there was a pass—high, and airy, but it was the only pass I knew of that came across that ridge, and down into Glencoe. It was all I had left, so I ran to it. I had no food in me, no warmth. But when we must, we must, and we manage it, and I tripped on my hem so that it tore but hems never mattered. I climbed the steep pass through such heavy snow that it made the Inverlochy weather like a mild dust of snow. It was chest-deep on me. I used my arms like swimmers. My head was all I had left to feel—my body now was gone. If I had sat down on the high pass I reckon death would have swung down and caught me. Despite my December birthing. Despite being hardy, and small.

I did not stop. Only when I crested the blustery ridge did I pause—for I heard Lowland voices. In the white, I heard men’s voices. I blinked. I thought
hide
. Two redcoats were coming up the pass towards me, so I crouched down. I dug into the drifts with my hands, and crept in, and I clutched my hands to my mouth to keep in my ragged breath, as they passed. They hurried. One said
I will not be part of such business! I will not! I cannot
—and the other said
it is against all laws I know of!
And they were as anxious as I was, those two escaping men.

They went. And I said to myself
go! Run! Run!
So I pulled myself out of the hole, and I tripped as I came down into the glen which made me fall, tumble down the slope like a stone would, and it made me very sore and wretched but it was a quick descent, which was all I wanted. Then west, west, west into the glen by the way I had first ever entered it, on a silent moonlight night, and as I came to the Meeting of the Waters which were frozen, and blue-bright, I looked down into the glen and saw beauty. All was white. All was hushed, and bright.

I slowed.

I stood very still. At that moment, as I breathed, and as the snow fell very softly, I wondered if I’d ever seen such beauty as this—this, here. Now. It was a glinting world. It was gentle, and sleeping. The hearth’s smoke from Achtriochtan drifted up, very straight, and the trees bent down with snow, and I saw deer tracks about me. Icicles shone. The morning star was out.

I thought,
I love this place. Deeply.

Also, as I stood in all this silence, I thought
have I been wrong, all along? Is there no death coming?
I almost smiled at this. I almost laughed, said to myself
look at all this beauty. How can there be murders here? Look how wrong you have been, Corrag—how wrong…

I believed it too full of light, for any darkness. Too loved.

But then there was a musket shot. It cracked the glen open. And I ran thinking
no no no no no no no no.

I
N
I went. Snow-shod, and bloodied from rocks.