The Last Sunset (15 page)

“ ’Tis I,” Longholme breathed, his eyes wide
open in wonder. “ ’Tis my own face…”

“Yeah, bummer, or what?” murmured the American.

The officer held up one of Shawnee’s unopened
bottles of mineral water. “What manner of substance is this? ’Tis like glass,
and yet it bends to the touch. Does this truly convey water?”

Sam nodded irritably.

“You use this soft glass to convey water in a
land where water pours from the hillsides? What madness! With such a material I
would convey the finest wines and brandies.”

His excited gaze fell upon Shawnee’s Ordnance
Survey map of the area. He spread the sheet out across the table and began to
pore over it. Even in the dim light he could make out the legend that recurred
throughout much of the glen: ‘Ancient Ruins’. Slowly he straightened up from
the table.

“The words your lady spoke; that I am to be
betrayed by His Royal Highness; they were uttered in anger…?”

“…Every word I said was true,” came the icy
tones of the woman. She was helping her new companion to her feet. “Of all the
atrocities authorized by the Duke of Cumberland, only once did he put his
signature to paper… The son of the reigning monarch couldn’t be openly
associated with murder. Somebody had to pay for that mistake.”

“Looks like it’s your ass, pal,” Sam observed
unsympathetically.

Longholme straightened his uniform. “Perhaps
’tis fitting that the field commander of this miserable affair should be its
final victim. But the prime instigator… His Royal Highness?”

“As good as forgotten in England. Remembered to
Scots throughout the world as ‘Butcher Cumberland’.”

“The devil you say! By my oath, there is much
here to ponder on.”

Before Longholme could ponder further an urgent
knocking shook the door of the cottage.

“Sir, ’tis Corporal Sykes. An urgent dispatch
from Ensign Shaw.”

The officer sighed in exasperation. “I regret I
am pressed by other matters. You will excuse me.”

Outside they could hear the breathless voice of
the runner as he poured out his report. From time to time he was interrupted by
the clipped tones of Lieutenant Longholme.

“Anybody got any bright ideas ’bout how we get
ourselves outta this?” Sam whispered.

“I still got the little dagger!” exclaimed
Shawnee. “Maybe one of us could… y’know…”

“What: Jump him from behind? Slit his throat?”

“No. I meant if maybe if one of us, sorta
threatened him, or something…”

“He thinks hisself a hunter; that one. A hunter
of lowly vermin,” Rhona put in darkly. “Only death will forestall him.”

“Okay Let’s think this through,” Sam went on.
“Shawnee, don’t y’have one of those cute little pepper sprays you guys keep in
your handbags?”

“Yeah, but for some reason I didn’t think to
bring it on our walk.”

“I will do the deed,” Rhona said softly. “If you
will but return my
skian dhu
. ’Tis my family he has destroyed. It falls
upon myself to avenge them.”

Shawnee cupped the girl’s face in her hands.
There was such torment in those deep hazel eyes. She knew the girl’s wounds
would never heal if she tried to salve them with this man’s blood.

“No, honey. He’s booked his place in hell. Don’t
let him drag you there too.”

Rhona’s pain welled up once more from the depths
of her soul. Sam could see the sparkle in Shawnee’s eyes as she tried to soothe
her suffering.

Outside, the tenor of the dialogue between
Lieutenant Longholme and his underlings had changed. The soldiers appeared to
be questioning their orders. The pitch of the officer’s voice grew higher, on
the brink of outrage.

As Sam looked out of the window he saw the
corporal and one of his comrades trotting clumsily towards the west. “I don’t
like the looka this. The guy’s up to something…”

Longholme opened the door to the cottage, and
invited his guests to join him outdoors. “You may bring your haversacks. Tell
the Highland wench to bring whatever clothing and food is easy obtained. You
will have need of both.”

Sam was the first to emerge, blinking, from the
gloomy depths of the cottage. In each hand he held a hastily filled backpack.
The mist had all but vanished now. Even in the fading light of early evening
Sam recognised the landscape he’d first seen beneath that hot and cloudless
sky.

“What’s going on?” he wanted to know.

Longholme waited until the ladies had joined
them, each cradling a tartan bundle in her arms. He looked directly at Shawnee.
“ ’Twould appear, madam, whatever force has deposited you in this valley, has
done likewise with several others.” He looked for some response, and caught the
expressions of surprise that passed between the two strangers.

“What the hell is going on here?” Sam mumbled.

“Indeed,” said Longholme. He turned to the
bedraggled, tear-stained figure standing behind Shawnee. “Madam, ’twill be of
scant comfort to learn that I have ordered the immediate end of all operations
in this valley. My men will be gone by nightfall. Since I am to be made the
sole architect of this day’s work, His Royal Highness’s orders no longer carry
any authority.” He bowed stiffly. “I wish you may know peace of mind, Madam. It
may bring some comfort to know that I ne’er shall.”

Rhona stared speechlessly at the officer, who
then dramatically turned his back on them. “Begone now, all of you, as far from
this blighted place as you can go. If I am any judge of His Royal Highness ’tis
certain others will return to complete the work begun this day.”

He remained staring at the distant hills, his
hands clasped behind his back. When he turned around again the three figures
had melted into the gathering twilight.

Inside the cottage he picked up the book from
where he had dropped it on the floor. There was insufficient light to make out
any of the text, but he flicked through the pages anyway.

Andy Macmillan was no stranger to nights
spent in cold bivouacs, but this night had been particularly uncomfortable. It
was almost 4 am. He was cold and tired, but he’d found sleep impossible. He’d
heard of men whose minds erased a traumatic incident as a means of coping with
the horror of it. He was clearly not made that way. He could not shake off
those terrible images from the siege of Achnacon’s cottage, as if his mind was
trying to lessen their impact by replaying them over and over again.

There was also the nagging pain in his legs. He
doubted if the burns were anything more than superficial, but at this hour any
discomfort tended to be magnified out of all proportion.

Macsorley had found a little out-building thirty
yards from the burning cottage, where his injured corporal could shelter for
the night. The building was like a miniature black house, with ubiquitous
thatched roof and straw-covered floor. Having saved his corporal’s life,
Macsorley was like a child who’d made a special connection and was eager to
maintain the bond. He’d fussed over Macmillan like a devoted nurse, until in
the end he’d been sent into the night under the pretext of searching out the
whereabouts of Rae and Ferguson.

The blazing inferno that had been Achnacon’s
cottage was now just a pile of glowing embers. Two hours earlier the front wall
had collapsed inwards, sending a shower of sparks into the night sky. As the
fire had died away so too had the stench of roasted flesh. It was odd how
quickly a man became accustomed to the smell.

He couldn’t recall how many redcoats had been
left in the cottage and how many had been bulldozed out of the way by
Achnacon’s demented milk-cow. Yet he could vividly recall the features of each
soldier he’d shot down during those few moments at the door. The shock and
anguish on each face as his rifle had fired again and again into that scarlet
mob was burned like a firebrand into his brain.

Equally vivid was the image of that other
soldier he’d brought down near the front window. He hadn’t given up life
easily. Every pain-wracked breath could be seen in the pink froth that bubbled
around his mouth. In his eyes Macmillan had seen an expression of… fear…? Hatred…?
No, it was neither of those. It was defiance. The man had gone to his grave
with the most intense look of defiance in his eyes.

With a start he looked towards the smouldering
remains of the cottage. He’d taken it for granted the redcoat was dead, but he
hadn’t actually seen him die. He could see two bodies lying near the entrance,
but with a growing sense of alarm he realised the soldier who’d fallen near the
window was no longer there. Feverishly he peered into the shadows. Where the
hell was Macsorley when he needed him? The fire obligingly flared up again and
by its ghostly light Macmillan could make out the spread-eagled shapes of many
of his victims. The dancing shadows lent all of them the illusion of movement,
as if they continued to writhe in their death-throes.

He shielded his eyes, searching for a sign of
life amongst the restless shadows. It was then he caught the tortuous movements
of one particular shape as it crawled away from the fire. It could only be the
redcoat he’d wounded in front of the window.

Macmillan rose to his feet. If he could do
something for this individual it might salve his conscience. He was about to
leave his hideout when he saw Rae and Ferguson appear from the darkness. Both
made straight for the soldier. As Macmillan watched they forced him onto his
back with their feet. Both were carrying muskets, the bayonets gleaming dull
bronze in the firelight. He felt a deep unease. Something was wrong here.

“Rae! Fergie! Leave him alone. Ah’m on ma way
down.”

Neither paid him the slightest attention. Both
began to toy with the wounded redcoat, jabbing at him with their bayonets;
amusing themselves at the man’s terror. Macmillan could hear him pleading for
mercy. The corporal added his voice to the uproar, bellowing his disapproval.

Rae’s response was instant and horrifying. He
plunged his bayonet into the soldier’s stomach, twisting the barrel as he
withdrew the blade. Ferguson did likewise. The redcoat’s hands scrabbled at
each lunge, desperately trying to deflect the bayonets.

Above it all he could hear the high-pitched
shrieking of a soul in torment.

Macsorley had now appeared on the scene.

“Corp! Hell, man, get a grip! You’re gonnae have
the whole army down on top of us!”

Macmillan tried to focus on the young soldier.

“You’ve been having a nightmare, Corp. Screaming
like a banshee, ye were.”

Macmillan stumbled to the door of the hideout.
The first pale light of dawn had stained the eastern horizon, turning the
cloudy skies a watery shade of grey. The fire in Achnacon’s cottage had subsided
to a dull glow, barely illuminating the burnt shell of the house. Everything
beyond lay in deep shadow.

Macmillan slumped to the ground. “Ah saw Rae and
Fergie… They were… God, it was so real.”

The young man sat down beside him. “Those two
are enough tae give anybody nightmares.”

Macmillan ran a hand through his hair, trying to
clear the dregs of sleep from his mind. “Don’t suppose those redcoats were part
of the nightmare…”

Macsorley shook his head. “Sorry, Corp. None of
us have woken up from that one yet.”

The younger man had acquired another tartan
plaid. For all his pretensions the phillamor looked out of place on his slim
frame, like a new skin within which he had yet to grow.

“Ah found this hanging up in one of the houses
nearby,” he explained. “Ah don’t think the owner’s gonnae be needing it again.
Ah didn’t go beyond the village, but Ah tell ye Corp, it’s pure carnage out
there.”

“Aye, tell me about it.”

“Ah wasn’t taking about the redcoats. You want
tae see what those animals had been up tae. Ah counted three dead in one
cottage and two in another.”

“Aye?” The non-commissioned officer looked up
with pained interest.

“Aye. It’s a pity ye didnae take out more of
them.” Macsorley rummaged in the folds of his phillamhor and produced something
wrapped in a muslin cloth. “It’s grub; at least Ah think it’s grub.”

“Where’d ye get this?”

“In one of the cottages. The soft stuff is like
the cheese that Achnacon’s wifie gave us. Ah think the wee hard things are oat
biscuits.”

Macmillan sniffed the objects suspiciously. “Ye
sure these are biscuits? They look like something that’s been scraped off a
cow’s backside.” He took a cautious nibble of each. “Ah, hell, Ah’ve tasted
worse.”

“Ye know, Corp, maybe Fergie was right all
along,” said Macsorley. “Maybe we really are here for a reason.”

“Aye? Well, if you figure it out you let me
know. Ah cannae see what slaughtering a couple of dozen redcoats could achieve
in the grand scheme of things.”

“Listen, Corp. God knows how many died in the
original massacre, but Ah can think of four that’re alive because of you.”

“Aye, Ah suppose.”