Summer of Love Page 5

  The younger members of the gentry could talk of nothing else but the impending rebellion, almost wishing it to happen so that they could join in real battle on the side of the English. At first, Andrew took part, questioning the motives of both sides. But his was a lonely voice, at least in the mess hall. It only raised hostility and derision, particularly on the part of the McNabb brothers. So he kept quiet. In fact, as spring changed into summer, more often than not he ate dinner alone. Occasionally, he joined Dougan Graham for a meal.

  As Andrew had predicted, when the Earl of Breadalbane sent out the first call in August for his vassals to mobilize their men, he asked Andrew to remain in his position as the de facto factor.

  "A rather unfortunate decision," sneered John. "You won’t be able to prove that you’re a real man."

  Although Andrew kept looking out for Helen whenever he was in Killin, he never saw any of the MacGregors all that year. Their rent payments fell in arrears again. He wondered how she was, wondered whether by now she fancied a young man from the MacGregor clan. But most nights, before he fell asleep, he conjured up her picture. They hadn’t faded or become blurred with the passing of time and were still as vivid and clear as on the first night. Sometimes, her face appeared in his dreams in a veil of mist, and more than once he woke with a sense of disquiet.

  And then came the news of Prince Charles’ defeat at Derby, his rapid withdrawal North, and reports of widespread clansmen desertions from his camp, gleefully received at the castle. There were also rumors that in the Western Highlands and on the Island of Mull English troops and the Campbells of Argyle had begun plundering and burning the clachans left defenseless by the men who had joined the rebellion. After Prince Charles abandoned the futile siege of Stirling Castle in the face of the English army closing in on the Highlands, the Earl of Breadalbane sent his cavalry to join Cumberland, the McNabb brothers and James Campbell among them. Andrew felt a sense of relief to see them go. When the first white and pink crocuses raised their delicate blooms in the early spring of 1746, only a small number of soldiers were left for the defense of Finlarig Castle. It was now but a matter of days before the back of the rebellion would be brutally broken in the moors of Culloden.

  A few days after that battle, the gates of the castle were firmly locked and the garrison of twelve men under the leadership of the aging Lord Glenorchy took up battle stations, while the MacGregors marched by with their pipes playing, and the pine-sprig badge of Clan Gregor on their bonnets. The Earl did not even think of stopping them, glad that they seemed content to continue to their own glens. Little did they know that the royal troops and the forces from Argyle had already set the torch to many of their homes.

  From a window high up in the tower Andrew watched them march by in good order. They were too far away to recognize individual faces. He wondered if Helen’s father was among them.

  In the middle of May, a platoon of English infantrymen took up quarters at the castle. They were part of a force sent in from the garrison at Perth to disarm and punish the MacGregors, MacLarens, and other clan branches in Perth and Breadalbane who had joined the rebellion. The larger portion pushed into Glengyle, Craigroyston, and the Braes of Balquhidder, frustrated by the MacGregors simply fading farther into the hills before them. They plundered and burned every house and cottage and drove off any four-legged animal they could lay hands on.

  Lord Glenorchy ordered Andrew to submit within the day a list of all clachans between Kenmore and Crianlarich where any menfolk had joined up with Prince Charles. For some reason, Andrew put Dougal MacGregor’s at the bottom of the list. The day after, he was seconded to Lieutenant Gordon, the officer in charge of the platoon —his assignment to guide the troops in their punitive actions. Andrew had little notion of what that meant. He expected them to search for weapons and arrest the men who had served under Charles.

  When he reported to Lieutenant Gordon, the latter was pouring over a map of the area, Andrew’s list in his hand. He immediately asked him to mark all locations on the map and then questioned him about the size of each clachan, expounding his intention to secure the biggest ones first. The first expedition was to march off at five o’clock the following morning.

  That evening, Andrew had an uneasy feeling in his guts. He didn’t trust the man. His dislike was heightened when over dinner he had to listen to him bragging about his exploits in the campaign, and saw him pinch the bottoms of the servant women, groping under their skirts, and laughing loudly when they squirmed away from him.

  The troops filed out of the castle yard on the double just as the eastern horizon began to light up at the edge of the clouds. Their first destination was a clachan of MacLarens some eight miles up Glen Lochay. Andrew was riding at the front of the column next to Lieutenant Gordon, his four dragoons behind them. To his surprise, the soldiers seemed to be eager and in good spirits, full of anticipation, despite the grueling pace of the forced march under a darkening sky of gray clouds relentlessly rolling in from the Northwest, as if the sky wanted to hide what was coming. A bare two hours later the outlines of their target came into view about half a mile away. The troop now split into three groups. The plan was to swoop on the clachan in a pincer movement. Gordon invited Andrew to join him with the main section, taking the middle. Andrew agreed, curious to see a group of professional soldiers in action.

  The barking of several dogs raised the alarm, and before the soldiers could reach the first houses, shouts and shrill cries of fear echoed through the cottages. Within seconds, men, children, and women carrying babies or toddlers ran from the houses, some only half-dressed, and made for the woods behind the clachan. Some of the stragglers were caught by the soldiers closing in from the side and any valuables they carried, including their plaids taken away. When the first people emerged, the dragoons, their swords drawn, immediately galloped ahead, aiming for the men. They brutally ran down two of them, both elderly. One tried to rise. With a blow of the sword, a dragoon struck him down again. The four riders abandoned their pursuit when the fugitives disappeared in the woods.

  By then, the soldiers began storming into the cottages, driving out the few remaining people, mainly old men, who were cursing at the top of their lungs, old women, crying and lamenting, and two or three young mothers, fearfully clutching their babies to their bosoms. Other soldiers began carrying the people’s belongings from the cottages—pots, dishes, clothing, bed covers, grains, furniture. Those coming in from the side began herding the cattle, ponies, and other livestock.

  Suddenly, Andrew’s curiosity turned into a sick apprehension. They weren’t going to harm these people, he tried to reassure himself. What they were doing had nothing to do with securing the clachan. They were simply looting all their possessions! He wanted to protest and looked around to find Lieutenant Gordon. Then he saw him stuffing several pieces of silverware into his large coat pockets with a pleased grin.

  Desperate, weak cries made him turn around. Shocked, he watched how a young soldier roughly tore a plaid away from an old, frail woman, and then tried to pry open her gnarled fingers to get the brooch she was clutching.

  "Leave her alone," Andrew yelled outraged, "aren’t you ashamed to steal from a woman old enough to be your grandmother?"

  He nudged his horse toward the soldier. The latter, intimidated by the animal or by Andrew’s air of authority, let go of the old woman. In her rush to get away, she stumbled and fell, the brooch dropping from her hand. Quickly, the soldier jumped to pick it up, slipped it into his pocket, grinning gleefully, and then ran to join his fellow soldiers, who were emptying out a cottage farther on. For an instant, Andrew was tempted to go after him, but then he thought better of it. He would come out as the loser.

  A quarter hour later, Lieutenant Gordon rode up. "One of my men reported that you interfered when he executed his duty of confiscating enemy property. Is that the case, sir?" He placed a pronounced emphasis on the ‘sir’.

  Andrew, still boiling in anger and disgust, let his dis
like for Lieutenant Gordon come to the fore, and he countered sharply: "You call that confiscating enemy property? Stealing a plaid from an old woman? Yes, I told him to be ashamed."

  The officer seemed to puff himself up an inch or two. "Sir, I must warn you. They are executing my orders, and I will tolerate no interference with the duties of my men."

  "And your orders are to steal from old women, Lieutenant Gordon. Is that what lieutenants in the English army order their soldiers to do?" Andrew emphasized the man’s rank.

  Lieutenant Gordon went crimson and steered his horse closer. "Master Andrew, I warn you one last time. Do not interfere or I will order my men to arrest you. You were seconded to me as a guide. That’s your only role. And now withdraw beyond the village and wait until I summon you again." He turned his horse abruptly and trotted back to his troops.

  Andrew was left fuming, on the verge of going after him, ready to smash the grin off his face. But then he realized the futility of such an action. The dragoons would strike him down before he could land a second blow. Feeling utterly helpless, he swallowed his rage and rode to the edge of the settlement. The officer was correct. The earl’s orders were to serve as guide.

  For the next hour he had to witness the shameful plunder and wanton destruction perpetrated by the soldiers. No search party went after the men who had fled. They were only interested in the loot. Anything that could be removed was greedily taken. What could not be carried or loaded on carts, the rifle butts smashed to pieces or the bayonets ripped apart. And then they set the torch to the thatched roofs of the pitiful cottages, broke off the branches of fruit trees, and uprooted the crops. The English and their Highland allies had crushed the rebellion. Wasn’t that enough? Was there a need to also rape the whole country? Andrew’s rage turned into shame, growing heavier by the minute. Shame of being a Campbell, of belonging to the clan that were the staunchest allies of the English subjugators. He would go and report this outrage to Lord Glenorchy in person and tell him that he refused to be party to such action. If need be he would quit his employment.

  * * *

  Back at the castle and without waiting for any instructions from Lieutenant Gordon, Andrew immediately went to the factor’s quarters. As usual, Dougan Graham was pleased to see him.

  "Tell me, lad, how did that expedition go?" Then noticing Andrew’s somber face, he asked: "Was there trouble?"

  "More than that! I would not believe if somebody told me, had I not seen it with my own eyes," the young man exclaimed, the rage he had bottled up until now breaking to the surface. "They burned down the clachan. Stole anything they could. They even ripped the branches off the trees… The dragoons ran down people with their horses. I could do nothing to prevent it. Even old women …" His vision blurred. He turned away ashamed, wiping the tears with the sleeve of his coat.

  For a short while, Dougan looked pensive, then said: "Tell me, Andrew."

  Haltingly and then with ever increasing vehemence, Andrew gave an account, ending in his altercation with Lieutenant Gordon.

  "You better be careful, my lad. He could easily have you arrested for disobeying orders." He touched Andrew’s arm. "You know, the reason he might not have done it is that he needs you right now. Nobody around here knows this region and the lord’s tenants better than you."

  "But how could he? I’m not in the army. They can’t court-martial me."

  "Oh, yes, my lad. They can. The Earl seconded you, so you fall under martial orders, even if you have not been officially enlisted. So watch out what you do or say. Besides, Gordon could easily accuse you of being a Jacobite sympathizer. With all this hysteria, the suspicion alone could land you in jail, you know. And there would be little hope for justice now."

  These words had a sobering effect on Andrew. In a subdued voice he said: "So I couldn’t refuse to be a guide. I was thinking of doing just that."

  "No, lad, that would be foolish. He would have you jailed right away. You better put this out of your mind… I know, this is hard on you. But there is little anybody can do. It seems that Lord Cumberland has set his mind to breaking any rebellious spirit in Scotland once and for all. I have heard that all men who fought with Prince Charles will be court-marshaled and that they and all known sympathizers will forfeit their property to the Crown. A commission is going to be set up in charge of selling their lands."

  "They would confiscate even their clothes? An old woman’s plaid?"

  "If the officers condone it, the soldiers will take anything they can and even worse."

  "But couldn’t Lord Glenorchy put a stop to it. The houses and trees don’t belong to the tenants. They belong to him. And with all their cattle gone, they won’t be able to pay rents, … and many won’t make it through the winter either. The soldiers destroyed all their new crops. How will they feed their children? Somebody should tell the Earl, tell him that his houses are being torched." Andrew’s voice took on a more and more urgent tone.

  "I guess he knows. He has seen it before. They did much of that after the 1715 rebellion… Come, lad, sit with me and have a glass of claret. You cannot do anything. I know this is hard on an upright fellow like you. But this is war. You just have to accept it… Maybe I will mention it to the Earl. He may be able to curb the worst excesses."

  "Please do, Mr. Graham."

  Andrew’s disgust was fueled further when he saw that most of the items plundered were sold at a fraction of their real value to the speculators who had followed the troops like vultures.

  * * *

  Over the next three weeks, Andrew had to watch that spectacle of callous plunder and destruction time and again, except that now most clachans were empty but for the very old and infirm, all other inhabitants and much of their belongings safely hidden in the forests or the shielings. But even the very old were not spared the indignities of being robbed of clothing, leaving them barely decent. Andrew hated himself for what he was doing. Most nights, he had trouble sleeping and when he finally did sink into an exhausted sleep, violent dreams often woke him abruptly. He felt ashamed to be seen riding next to Lieutenant Gordon and always stayed well back from the settlements. Every time he swore that this was his last, that he would leave the following day. Simply flee. But a vague feeling that he had to watch over something kept him back.

  Initially, he had been able to spare Dougal MacGregor’s little clachan, claiming it was too small to even bother about it. Early June, running out of other targets, Lieutenant Gordon overruled him. Andrew thought of ways to warn the MacGregors, but there wasn’t enough time left for an opportunity to sneak away. Since that first outing, he felt constantly watched and treated with suspicion by the officer, the dragoons, and the sergeants. Even some of the soldiers made no bones about despising him. If they had not observed him practice his dexterity with throwing a knife and seen his deadly aim, they probably would have beaten him up already.

  The night before the raid, he did not sleep a wink. He prayed that Dougal MacGregor was astute enough to set a sentinel who would raise the alarm in time for a quick flight into the hills. Time and again, he imagined himself at the head of the column and suddenly being face to face with Dougal, Mary, and Helen. The very thought set his heart pounding. Having to face Helen would be the worst. He wouldn’t be able to meet her eyes. He would want to die then and there. He racked his brain for a last-minute way to warn them, but nothing came to mind that wouldn’t give him away. Shortly after midnight, he actually got dressed only to sink back into bed when he realized that he wouldn’t get his horse past the guards at the stables.

  So, early next morning Andrew found himself riding beside the hated lieutenant. Before they entered the copse of oak hiding the glen, the officer gave instructions for the plan of attack. Rather than staying in the background, trying to shut out the scenes of wanton mayhem, Andrew stayed with the troop.

  His stomach tightened into a knot when he spotted the cattle and ponies still grazing in the fields. But something felt strange. No dogs announced their ar
rival, nor were there any people around. Had they managed to get away? Why was smoke rising from Dougal MacGregor’s cottage? He couldn’t stand the uncertainty any longer. He needed to know and raced toward the cottage, immediately flanked by the four dragoons who must have thought he was executing the officer’s orders. Jumping off the horse on the run, he rushed inside. Chairs were overturned, the cupboards wide open, most personal belongings gone, other things strewn on the clay floor—the telltale signs of a hurried departure. He could breathe again.

  At his feet lay Helen’s little russet jacket. He picked it up, feeling its soft texture. Thank God, she got away in time. He put it carefully on a chair. On the spur of the moment he picked it up again and stuffed inside his coat. Suddenly, he heard a wheezing rasp from behind the partition. He froze for a moment and then went carefully around it. Facing him was Mary MacGregor, standing protectively in front of the bed. On it lay grandmother MacGregor, breathing with great difficulty, both hands pressed to her chest. She looked like a corpse.

  A rueful cry escaped him: "Holy mother, why didn’t you leave?"

  Mary did not answer, just looked at him reproachfully. He wanted to sink into the ground. The noise of soldiers barging into the cottage shook him out of his anguished paralysis. He rushed outside. He needed to ask the officer to spare the cottage.

  "Lieutenant Gordon, there’s a seriously ill woman in that cottage. She might die if she’s forced out." He didn’t really know whether this was true, but he would have said anything to protect her.

  If he had expected any mercy or compassion from the lieutenant, he was seriously mistaken. "It will hardly matter if the old bitch kicks the bucket now or later," the officer sneered, deliberately turned away from Andrew, and shouted: "Sergeant Miller, take a detachment and secure the cattle!"

  "Aye, sir!"

  By then, a soldier was pushing Mary from the cottage. She struggled to get back in. He threw her roughly to the ground. Two others dragged out the old woman by her feet and dumped her on the hard ground, making rude comments about her exposed thighs, grey, blotched skin hanging loosely from thin bones. Mary got up and ran to her mother-in-law, covering her up and cradling her head in her lap.