Chapter XXII: Miss Macpherson and the Duke

On the brow of the high ground close to Fort Augustus there sat a solitary man wrapped to his nose in a great Highland plaid. Night was falling and a thin drizzle of rain coming out of the west. The black outline of hills closed about the Fort as though to overwhelm it. No sound there was but the weary dripping of rain and the noise of running water over stones.

The figure on the mist-ridden hill-side never moved, but remained as lifeless as the crag behind him--part as it were of the tragic twilight.

Down in the Fort lights flickered here and there, and a horseman plunged out of the obscure light and entered the gates.

The man upon the hill never raised his head but watched him for all that, the rain pouring from his bonnet to his plaid and running in little streams upon the heather.

A bugle sounded down below. Following hard on its muffled notes came the clanging of the gates.

The Fort was closed for the night.

The swift darkness of a Highland night smoothed out the ragged line of mountain, obliterating with its travelling shadows the outlines of the desolate glen, the clumps of trees about the low-lying country and in a flash the man upon the hill. He had become in a breath of time inseparably of the night itself.

Long after a clear whistle sounded from the pathway below. It was followed by a softer longer whistle.

With a sigh the man upon the hill gained his feet, being very stiff and cold with waiting, and passing over the sodden heather stood looking about him into the mist. Presently two figures loomed into sight.

The first of them, wrapped like the man himself in the folds of a heavy plaid, addressed him in a familiar voice.

It was Miss Macpherson.

"Come, Castleleathers," she said, "here is the man Macpherson, he is letting a rope over the wall, and he has arranged all. The Duke expects a visitor from the west this very night or maybe to-morrow and he will be alone. Things are no so strict as they were, and there is a rumour that he goes south soon. He thinks the Highlands are crushed...."

"The German loon," snapped Castleleathers with much contempt, "he cannot tell the difference between a Hessian and a Macdonald."

"Come," said Miss Macpherson, "and say ye do not think hardly of me if anything goes wrong."

He took her hand and gave it a crunch.

"Tuts!" he said. "I'm no easy to move, but I like a ploy at a time. I feel younger to-night than I've felt this ten years. He's only a wee bit German after all."

Without another word they reached the Fort, and Macpherson, who seemed a capable man though silent as a dyke, passed through the gateway and disappeared.

They skirted the outer rampart noiselessly and taking up their stand some hundred yards beyond the entrance gates, awaited the rope.

A few minutes later and down it came, and steadying Miss Macpherson for fear she grew giddy and fell, they began to mount together, and reached the top. There all was very dark and quiet, and the mist obscured everything outside the reach of a man's arm.

The garrison had long since grown careless now that the Highland forces had been utterly dispersed and crushed. Even the Duke was growing lukewarm in persecution and anxious to bid farewell to the land of snow and mist and hear what London had to say to him for his brave doings. At that very moment he sat toasting his toes before a grand peat fire with a log or two to give it flame, a glass of mulled wine at his elbow.

The room in which he sat was very small and compact, the shutters drawn, and the seat in which he dozed one he had procured from the wreckage of a chief's house--a massive cushioned chair--with a back so high that it took a big man to see who entered the room.

He had dined as well as Highland rations would permit, and, like all Germans, he loved his food. He also relished the hour following his dinner. He had a kind of reverence for that sacred time.

To lounge before the fire on that dreary night of cold rain and mist, a night fit only for Highland cattle and suchlike, had its compensations. The last few months had brought their burden of anxiety and fatigue. The eve of Culloden had been enough to try any man's nerve. Had he lost--had he been taken or killed--there is little question that the English Crown would have changed hands. Perhaps he had been over hard on the barbarous people who had rebelled, but he was frightened. Looking back on it now, he saw that he had lost his head for a time. And now the country was subdued. He could return and listen to the things that London was waiting to say. There would be flags and banquets and honours. England was at his feet. Labour accomplished successfully has, indeed, its consolations.

He stirred the fire and listened to the crackle of the wood. It was a fine, brisk, homely noise on such a wretched night of driving rain and sleet. It was good to feel the rare glow of it on one's feet and knees. He wondered why it seemed so much better on a night of storm. He hunted in his mind for a reason. Suddenly he chuckled. He remembered the Young Pretender, sheltering for all he knew under a ledge of dripping rock, or in a byre for cattle. Bad weather cut two ways. It had its comforts for the victor--it lashed the fugitive most piteously.

He laughed outright at the notion. Where was he now, that silly young man? Yet not so young--his own age in solemn truth. Then all the more credit to himself. Where was he now, but on some open moor like a curlew in the night or a stag watching the way he had run.

His eyes shut and suddenly a snore rang through the firelit room.

At the same moment a tall and heavily plaided figure passed noiselessly across the space that divided the door from the table and stood there for a moment as though undecided in his mind what course to take. In the doorway there hung a heavy curtain. Behind this there was another form. One could see that by the curve of it inside the room.

On the table there lay a paper--a despatch apparently, and this the man behind the chair looked at idly with his thoughts upon the silent figure sunk in slumber.

But as he read he frowned, and then, very softly he gathered up the paper and returned to the doorway where his companion appeared, and together they passed out of sight.

In an adjoining room they paused, and together bent over the dispatch. It was dated two days since, from Loch Carron, and signed by Captain Strange. It stated that Neil Mackenzie had encountered Muckle John and Rob Fraser in the inn of Loch Carron, and in an attempt to capture them had suffered both in body and reputation, and that unless he was permitted to take vengeance upon them he and his following would cease to interest themselves in the business of the Government further. That Neil Mackenzie, himself, was even now journeying to Fort Augustus to explain the matter, and that he advised that it might reflect less on the Government if the affair was left in Highland hands. The remainder of the dispatch dealt with the state of the district, the capture of Lord Lovat, and concluded with the words: "There are reasons why it would be expedient if neither Muckle John or Rob Fraser stood their trial, but were reduced to silence by some other course, in fact if your Highness could see your way to disarming their suspicions and the suspicions of the Jacobites in some way, it would leave the road clear for Mackenzie."

"This Mackenzie," whispered Miss Macpherson, "is like to be the end of Rob I'm thinking. It is evident that he has suffered at the hands of Muckle John...."

"And means mischief," added Castleleathers.

In the room down the passage the snores of the Duke rolled peacefully on.

Miss Macpherson paused, turning the matter over in her practical mind.

"Have you ever seen this Neil Mackenzie?" she asked at last.

He shook his head.

"I never had dealings with Mackenzies," he replied.

"Then why not take his place, my man? The Duke canna tell one tartan from another. Hear what he has to say. Tell him your people are mortally offended with Muckle John."

"But what of Mackenzie himself?"

Her face hardened.

"Mackenzie must be sent upon his business," she said, "and what is more, he must never reach the Fort."

"One ploy at a time," said Castleleathers, "and here goes for the first."

With that he tip-toed back and replaced the dispatch, then with a heavy tread walked down the passage, and knocked upon the door.

"Who is there?" cried the Duke starting from sleep.

"Neil Mackenzie, your Highness."

Cumberland pushed the chair about.

In the room he saw a great man standing muffled to his face in a plaid. He had the bearing of a robber chief, but one never knew with these terrible Highlanders.

"I 'ave 'eard ov you," said the Duke civilly enough, despite his harsh Teutonic voice, "two hours since I received a despatch from Captain Strange referring to some trouble between you and Muckle John."

"My people," said Castleleathers, turning his face to the shadow, "have received an affront which can only be wiped out in one way. We are prepared to serve the Government with loyalty and we look to your Highness to remember it."

The Duke took up the paper and read it through very carefully.

"Zey are both dangerous Jacobites," he said, "and there are reasons vy zis Muckle John should not stand 'is trial in London. He knows too much, Mr. Mackenzie. There are things we vish to keep to ourselves for a little--you understand?"

Castleleathers bowed his head.

"There is the boy too," he said.

Cumberland shrugged his shoulders.

"Now that Lovat is taken, I care no dings for 'im. But he vill serve to put you on the trail of the other."

"He is elusive, your Highness--there is no telling how we can lay hands on him unless..."

"Unless what?"

"Your Highness could appear to have pity on his youth and issue a pardon. It would be an act of clemency and what followed would only point to clan jealousy."

Cumberland frowned. He was a straight-forward man with an aversion for subterfuge.

"I do nod like your Highland vays," he said grumpily, "why not hang the boy in the ordinary vay? Muckle John is a different matter. I see no reason for this pardon."

Castleleathers played his last card.

"There are wheels within wheels," said he, "we know that this Muckle John has pledged his word to preserve the life of the boy. When we have the boy in our hands, for he will come home on receiving his pardon, we will have the bait for the catching of Muckle John. Two rebels will have gone, your Highness, and none the wiser. There are things this Muckle John could say that would sound badly in a trial...."

"I know, I know," said Cumberland, ill at ease, "but surely there are odder vays...."

Castleleathers shrugged his shoulders.

"It is all we have asked," he said, "and we are not a small clan."

The Duke noted the menace in his voice and controlled his anger with an effort.

"At anodder time," he said, "I would see you var enough, but I am sick to death of all this futile business and the wrangles of one clan with another. Have it as you will."

He strode to the table, took a piece of paper out of a drawer and began to write upon it.

"Here," he said crossly, "is ze pardon for Rob Fraser, and now let me hear no more of Muckle John."

"Your Highness has acted wisely," said Castleleathers smoothly, and a minute later took his leave.

Backwards and forwards tramped the Duke of Cumberland, his thoughts deep again upon his departure for London and the brave times ahead. Forgotten was all the hardship of the last few months--the poor fare and dreary weather. He was like a man saying a glad farewell to a desolate country of savages.

"It is but half done," whispered Castleleathers to Miss Macpherson when they stood once more upon the heather, "he has forgotten Rob and is like a man eaten up with longing for the south. I've seen such before. There is still Mackenzie. He may be upon us any minute, and what is it to be, the sword or a dunt upon the head."

"A Mackenzie," remarked Miss Macpherson, like to overflow with joy at the pardon, "is neither here nor there, but what of the swarm? You may kill one bee, but dinna forget the hive."

"True," said Castleleathers, "which way will he come?"

"He will come by this very road--I doubt but we'll meet him any minute."

It was long before they heard the sound of a horse thudding up the glen, and very soon the squelch of its feet in the sodden ground. Instantly they crouched by the way, and then as the horseman drew level with them they raised their heads and took him in at a glance. He was a very heavily built man, muffled up in a riding cloak and with a bonnet upon his head.

"A Mackenzie if ever there was one," whispered Castleleathers, and starting up came upon him from the slope of the hill and hauled him off his beast so that he uttered one startled cry and sprawled in the heather with his legs in the air. In the same grim silence, Castleleathers was upon his chest and with a dirk at his throat.

"Is it to be the quick passage," he whispered in Gaelic, "or do you swear to do what is said?"

There was a long silence.

Mackenzie upon his back and helpless as a child was trying to see the tartan of the man above him.

"Neil Mackenzie," said Castleleathers, "unless you forget what brought you here this night, you are not like to remember it at all."

"Who are you?" gasped Mackenzie, trying to see the better.

"I," replied Castleleathers, "am Muckle John."

"Muckle John?" He doubted it, but it was black darkness where they lay amongst the heather.

"What of the affair Loch Carron way?" continued Castleleathers. "You came poorly enough out of that. But I have a mind to end it this time. I am not a patient man and no one has dealings against me who does not at last regret it."

"I will go back," said Mackenzie in a heavy tone like a man beaten once and for all.

"You must tell your people that you are satisfied with the answer the Duke has given you."

"I will--I swear it!"

Castleleathers drew back and leaped to his feet.

"Away then!" he said, "the road to the west lies clear. But if you so much as dream of treachery---no power can save you."

In silence Mackenzie caught his horse and mounting it took the road for home, all the courage gone out of him. All that night he rode, and the next day, and when he reached Loch Carron he gave no word at all, but bore the aspect of a man who fears to look over his shoulder in the gloaming.

As for Castleleathers and Miss Macpherson, being both people over middle life, they made their way stiffly homewards to an inn near Fort Augustus.

It was over a basin of hot brose that he turned to her.

"I am past ploys like these," he said, "but it smacks of the old days."

"The young ones are no like the old ones," sighed Miss Macpherson.

"None so old," rejoined Castleleathers, smiling at her suddenly.

Miss Macpherson busied herself with her plate.

"It's after Rob we must go the morn," she said.

"It has been a great night," he remarked, nodding before the fire, "that Mackenzie was sair taken aback."

"The Duke is no sae difficult to manage as folk say," hazarded Miss Macpherson.

"Young blood," grunted Castleleathers, "he only needs managing."

"You're all the same," murmured Miss Macpherson slyly.