The Goose Girl and Other Stories (16 page)

Astraddle on his chair—as if to belie or make light of the bland dignity of his look, his stately, heavy-lidded assurance—sat easily, in his own device of comfort, John Campbell, Earl of Breadalbane, a man in his fifties who had never feared either the complexity of double-dealing or the simplicity of violence. He had made war in his own right, lived with a foot astride political division as now he straddled his chair, and prospered comfortably by shrinking from no iniquity that would serve his ends. Among the papers on the Master's table was a secret report that gave him credit for ‘neither honour nor religion but where they are mixed with interest', and described him as ‘of fair complexion, of the gravity of the Spaniard, cunning as a fox, wise as a serpent and supple as an eel'. In these attributes, however, the Master—King William's Secretary for Scotland—saw a reflexion (though coarsely blurred) of his own abilities; and felt pleasantly aware that a clever man may confer more confidently with opposing cleverness than with the unpredictable mind of a simpleton.

He shuffled his papers, made sure that the secret report was well covered, and read again a letter referring to Breadalbane's late employment by the Government. He, having wide influence and great power in the Highlands—his lands stretched from Loch Awe to Loch Tay—had been busy with official bribery, and now claimed to have bought general peace, and won for King William the allegiance of a dozen disaffected chiefs who had previously acknowledged no king but James; all this for the trifling sum of £12,000, and that not spent, but only promised. He would, however, give no precise account of what he had promised.

Without impatience, the Master tried again. ‘I know Lochiel,' he said, ‘better than the others. How was he? Did he come easily?'

‘Except in their manner, there was little difference between him and Keppoch. Hard bargainers, both of them.'

‘But Lochiel is your cousin—'

‘My cousin indeed, but a Cameron first. He thinks of his clan before he remembers cousinhood.'

‘How much did he cost you?'

‘Does that matter?' asked Breadalbane. ‘The money is spent—or promised—the Highlands are quiet, and between friends that's the only way I know of accounting.'

‘How long will they stay quiet? There are reports—not here, but I have seen them—that say some of the chiefs were willing enough
to take the new King's money, but most would welcome the old King back again.'

‘They have taken more than money. They have taken their oath of allegiance.'

‘Have you ever known a Highlander bound by an oath when he saw the advantage of breaking it?'

‘They have their own way of judging a thing,' Breadalbane admitted.

‘And their own habit of accountancy,' said the Master.

‘It is a habit that has lived with me too long to suffer change,' replied Breadalbane smoothly.

‘But even in your country they have taken note of your—shall I call it singularity? There has been comment—widespread comment—and some criticism. Unfriendly criticism.'

‘You have a report on that too?'

‘No, no. We do not ask for reports on what our friends are doing. But gossip—who can restrain it?—gossip sometimes comes my way, and there was talk, I remember, of a dispute in your castle of Achallader.'

‘Old Maclan of Glencoe said the chiefs, so he had heard, were refusing to be bribed, and I was putting the money in my own pocket.'

‘It was something of that sort.'

‘Maclan is the damnedest rebel of them all, and a thief by trade.'

‘That I know.'

‘He was with Claverhouse at Killiecrankie, with Cannon at Dunkeld, and with Buchan at the Haughs of Cromdale: three times in open battle with your Government! But we fell out before that, about cattle, not politics. And that debate was renewed after Killiecrankie, when, on his way home, he took a score of milking cows, with my mark on them, and drove them into that black glen of his. Cattle-thief and rebel, there's Maclan for you! And if you prefer his word before mine—'

‘Indeed, and I am not such a fool. I was giving you the talk of the country, and that is all.'

‘To what purpose?'

‘There is still discontent and hostility in those abominable hills, and I must know what keeps it alive. It was in August that we offered full pardon to all who had been in arms against the Government—to all who would take the oath of allegiance before New Year's Day—and how did they reply to generosity? They turned their backs, and pretended indifference. They were arrogant, not grateful. They refused to take shelter till the last moment. They had told you their price, but
still put off signing the bond. Some of them waited till the Old Year was dying in its ultimate daylight before they came in—intransigent, contemptuous, and stubborn to the end.'

‘They may have been waiting for their orders. From the King across the water.'

‘Did they ask for his approval of surrender?' ‘So it is said.'

‘Then our policy of buying their allegiance was moonshine from the start! And those of the chiefs who took payment—'

‘They all took it: or promise of payment. All to whom I offered it.'

‘That was my meaning. And those whom you had promised to pay went home, and rattled their gold in anticipation, if not in fact, and laughed at the Government whose exchequer they would spoil.'

The Master rose, and going to the window looked out for a minute at the bright snow. Then, turning his back on the sunlight, his face in shadow, said bitterly, ‘I had hoped they would refuse the oath. That some, at least—Lochiel, Keppoch, and Glengarry—would refuse, and give us the excuse to teach them a lesson they would not easily forget; and that others might learn from their misfortune. Now is the time for it, now in mid-winter, and the troops are there ready at Inverlochy. We should have given them a mauling. It is all they understand. But for a year past we have been blowing hot and cold: now menaces, now fair words and bribery. We have blown about like weathercocks, and lost our chance.'

Breadalbane turned his chair, and now leaning back, his legs outstretched, looked at the ceiling and said, ‘You use a word that I seem to remember. I think it was I who first spoke of the propriety of mauling them, and the very sound reasons for mauling.'

‘But you changed your mind when it was proposed to buy their submission, and you were asked to arrange the purchase-price.'

‘It isn't I who frame your policy. I am your friendly agent, no more than that. And even so I said it was nonsense to throw good money into certain houses.'

‘You spoke against Keppoch and Glengarry—'

‘Against all Clan Donald. Burn and destroy that pestilent tree and all its branches: that was my advice.'

‘Are you still of the same mind?'

‘What use is it now, when they have all come in?'

‘If we could block the last loop-hole, against the last latecomer?'

Breadalbane sat up straight and answered, ‘If there is one, only one, then, whoever he may be, leave nothing standing or alive. Burn crops and houses, take their cattle, kill all that can cry for mercy, for if you
leave infants crawling on the floor they'll shout defiance when they've grown to it.'—With prying, importunate eyes he leaned towards the Master and asked softly, ‘Who is still to come?'

‘That mountebank Lochiel was nearly late, but just got home in time.'

‘Lochiel may outlive both of us: he's less of a fool than you suppose.'

‘Glengarry has refused.'

‘Glengarry has a strong house to sit in. We must wait awhile to deal with him.—Is there no one else?'

‘One other.' ‘Who?'

‘Maclan of Glencoe was late.'

‘It should have been a greater man, but we'll take Maclan and be thankful for small mercies. Maclan and every one of his rieving, thieving, cattle-hungry clan. Would God there were more of them! But they have roofs enough to make a good bonfire in Glencoe.—When did you hear this?'

‘Last night, when Argyll was here.'

‘Would they not register Maclan's oath?'

‘It has come to that in the end. Here are the letters he brought.'

Breadalbane pulled his chair to the table, and he and the Master sat shoulder-close to read. Neither saw the slight, dividing movement of the heavy tapestries that covered the doorway, and if the Master had observed it he would have turned away to make sure of seeing nothing more; for he knew and was tolerant of the curious habits of his King. But now he had no need of pretence, for he was absorbed in the matter before him: in papers on the table that held the destiny of a small Highland clan. He looked up once, to narrow his eyes against the glare of sun-lit snow, and think how much deeper it would lie in dark Glencoe; and on the other side of the tapestries the King so enlarged the paper-knife slit of their division that it became a peep-hole for an eye that gleamed, enquiring, like an oyster on a shell half-opened.

‘He went first to Inverlochy,' said the Master, ‘but Hill, who commands there, quite properly said he had no authority to take his oath. He must go to Inveraray and swear his allegiance before the Sheriff. The weather was bad—is it ever anything different in the Highlands?—and he and his following were delayed by heavy snow. They had a difficult journey to Inveraray, and when they arrived they found the Sheriff away. Drinking the New Year in with his friends, I am told.'

‘You mean Ardkinglas?'

‘Colin Campbell of Ardkinglas: that's the man. He came back on the 5th or 6th, and even as late as that was persuaded to take Maclan's oath. Is he known to be a weak man?'

‘He is a man with many friends. A kindly creature.'

‘But very ill-advised. He sent the certificate of Maclan's allegiance to Edinburgh, for submission to the Privy Council, and also, more sensibly, wrote a full account of what had happened, and sent it by special messenger to Argyll.'

‘Did the Council reject his certificate?'

‘It appears that the Privy Council never saw it. But the certificate—here it is—was crossed out and cancelled.'

‘Who did that? Argyll?'

William of Orange, joint-sovereign of Britain with Mary, daughter of James II, had grown up among enemies; early in life he had discovered the advantage of judicious murder, and been prompt to reward the murderers. A malignant destiny had cast him for opponent to
le Roi Soleil
, God's self-appointed deputy on earth, Louis XIV of France; whose hope of conquering the Netherlands he spoilt by letting in the sea and turning several provinces into a swamp. A fishy victory, characteristic of a life in which he was often successful without glory, indomitable without pride, and prudent without principle. A hint of perversion, a tendency to constipation, were reflected in the melancholy of his long, pale face, and his cynicism may have been the bitter flower of self-knowledge. By temper and circumstance suspicious, he had acquired the habit of covering his natural expression with an almost visible mask of repellent, cold indifference. A profoundly unattractive man, he suffered as profoundly from self-consciousness, and when his wife died, whom he had loved and to whom he had been vulgarly and blatantly unfaithful, his sorrow was over-whelming. Self-hating, he had no pity for others; but could feel remorse.

He had no pride—nothing of royalty's pride—and went about the Palace unattended, often in slippers of list, for quietness. He distrusted the Master of Stair, his Secretary for Scotland, with good cause, and spied on him, or eavesdropped, as often as he could; but in his judgment of what he heard he was handicapped by his ignorance of Scotland.

Now, having gathered that some new mischief was being plotted, he retreated, soft-soled, from the tapestried doorway into the anteroom, and composed himself and his features for the confronting of his Secretary and the assured cunning of Breadalbane. When unprepared, or with his few intimate friends, William's face always betrayed the
nervous, questing suspicion of his nature: a twitching nose with a flare of pink in the nostrils, a close-pursed mouth, a fretful eye. But for public appearance he had devised a drill: he would pass his hand, four or five times, across his cheeks and mouth and brow, pressing hard to deaden them against normal impulse; and so, as if he had put on a mask, he could assume a look of sculptured calm. A cold, repulsive calm.

This he now did, in the anteroom, and advancing with a little dry cough to the tapestries of the doorway, brusquely parted them, and stopping at the entrance stood there without speaking: not intending his silence to be offensive, to imply rebuke, but because now his whole consciousness was behind his greedy eyes, that were picking up all they could.

Breadalbane and the Master rose quickly from their chairs, and bowed deeply towards him. ‘Your Majesty,' they said.

‘What's new in Scotland?' he asked. ‘More mischief?'

‘Of the chiefs, or chieftains, with whom we have been negotiating, Sir, two only have failed to take advantage of Your Majesty's clemency and secure themselves by swearing allegiance. One is Macdonald of Glengarry, who is holding out in his castle of Invergarry, and who, till better weather comes and we can send artillery against him, must wait for justice; the other, a lesser man in every way, is Maclan of Glencoe—'

‘Not less in bulk or stature,' interrupted Breadalbane. ‘Old Maclan is as near to seven foot as six, and broad as a door and thick as an ox.'

With an impatient gesture for silence, the Master continued: ‘This Maclan, chieftain of a sept of Clan Donald, has an evil reputation of old continuance. He is a rebel by nature and habit, and in his usual practice a cattle-thief and pillager.'

‘And how,' asked the King, ‘do you propose to deal with him? Are you going to ask for more money—strip my exchequer of another two or three thousand pounds—to bribe him into loyalty?'

‘No, Sir,' said the Master. ‘Subject to Your Majesty's approval, my lord of Breadalbane and I are in agreement that we must use force and punish the people of Glencoe.'