The Jacobite Trilogy. D. K. Broster

dead man lay, half carrying, half dragging another Highlander, alive, but evidently wounded. The officer pointed, and they followed the usual summary method in such cases, and, after planting him against the dry-stone wall of the building itself, withdrew, leaving him face to face with the firing-party. But apparently their victim could not stand unsupported, for a moment or so after they had retired he slid to one knee and then to the ground.

      “Detestable!” said Major Windham to himself. He had recognised the tartan now—the one of all others that he would never mistake, for he had worn it himself—the Cameron. But that did not surprise him. The doomed Highlander was now struggling to his feet again; he gained them unaided, and, steadying himself with one hand against the wall behind him, stood once more upright, so tall that his head was well above the edge of the low thatch. Now Keith was near enough to see the lower end of a dirty bandage round his left thigh, and the whole of another on his sword-arm, for all that he had upon him was a kilt and a ragged shirt. And——

      “Good God!” exclaimed the Englishman aloud; and, calling out at the top of his voice, “Stop! stop!” he drove the spurs into his horse, came slithering down the last part of the slope, raced towards the shieling, leapt off, and, holding up his hand—but all faces were now turned towards him—ran in between the already levelled muskets and Ewen Cameron.

      Ewen alone had not seen him. His face was the colour of the wall behind him; his eyes were half closed, his teeth set in his lower lip, and it was plain that only his force of will was keeping him upright there. A tiny trickle of blood was beginning to course down his bare leg. And even the blind instinct to face death standing could keep him there no longer; for the second time he swayed, and the wounded leg gave way under him again. But this time Keith’s arms caught him as he sank.

      Oblivious of the stupefaction which had descended upon the soldiers, and of the more than stupefaction manifested by the officer behind them, Keith lowered that dead weight to the ground and knelt beside it. In Ardroy’s gaunt face a line of white showed under the closed lids, and Keith’s hand pressed on the torn shirt found a heartbeat so faint that he thought, ‘He was dying when they dragged him out, the brutes!’ Perhaps he had not been in time after all. He remembered that there was brandy in his holster, and looked up with an idea of summoning Mackay.

      But by this time the officer had ridden up, and was there a pace or two away, towering over the pair by the wall.

      “Am I tae tak ye for a surgeon, sir?” he enquired in a strong Lowland accent, and in a tone compounded of hot rage and cold. “If sae, an’ ye’ll hae the kindness tae shift yersel’ oot o’ the way for a meenut, there’ll be nae further need o’ yer sairvices!”

      Keith laid Ewen’s head down on the grass, and, standing up, regarded the rider, a neat, fair-complexioned Scot of about five-and-forty, with little light eyes under sandy brows.

      “Major Guthrie, I think?” he suggested, and saluted him. “I am Major Keith Windham of the Royals, on General Hawley’s staff, and now on my way with despatches from His Royal Highness to Perth.”

      “I care little if ye hae despatches frae God Himsel’!” retorted Major Guthrie with increasing fury. “And this isna Perth . . . Haud awa frae yon wa’—unless ye’ve a fancy tae be shot tae!”

      But Keith did not move. “This is not a common Highlander, sir,” he said, as calmly as he could. “He is an officer, despite his dress.” For officers, as Major Guthrie must know, were not shot in cold blood—now.

      “What’s that tae me?” enquired Guthrie. He turned. “Here, ye sumphs, pit him up afore the wa’ again!”

      Two of the men made an undecided move forwards, but the sight of this other officer of equal rank standing so resolutely in front of the prostrate Highlander daunted them.

      “But listen, Major Guthrie,” pleaded Keith, keeping a tight hold upon his own rapidly rising temper and disgust, “this gentleman is really of more than ordinary importance, for he was at one time aide-de-camp to the Pretender’s son, and he is Lochiel’s near kinsman—some kind of cousin, I think. You surely would not——”

      “Lochiel’s near kinsman, did ye say?” interrupted Guthrie, bending down a little. “Hoo is he called?”

      “Cameron of Ardroy, a captain in Lochiel’s regiment. I am sure,” went on Keith, eager to follow up the impression which Lochiel’s name appeared to have made, “I am sure you will recognise, Major, that the Duke would not wish him to be shot out of hand like this!”

      “Indeed I’m obliged tae ye, Major Somebody or ither, for sae kindly instructing His Royal Highness’s wishes tae me,” retorted the Lowlander, but he bent still farther from the saddle, and gazed down for a moment at what was lying so still by the wall—at the dirty, bloodstained, half-clothed figure which Keith had last seen so gallant in powder and satin, cool, smiling and triumphant. The plea he had offered—the only plea that he could think of—was it going to save Ewen Cameron from lying there stiller yet? He tried to read Guthrie’s intentions on his face, but all that he could see there was its innate meanness and cruelty.

      The saddle creaked as the rider came upright again. He looked down at Keith himself now with eyes that seemed to hold a flickering light.

      “This is God’s truth ye’re tellin’ me, that yon”—he pointed contemptuously—“is Lochiel’s cousin?”

      “Yes, on my honour as an officer.”

      “And may I speir hoo ye ken it?”

      “Because I have met him before. I assure you, sir, that if they knew at Inverness——”

      “This is nae mair Inverness than it is Perth, Major—Keith! I’m actin’ here on my ain authority, and if yon lousy rebel lying there had the Duke’s ain protection on him I wouldna regard it if I thocht fit. Still and on, I’m weel aware that as Lochiel’s near kinsman he may be of mair value alive than deid—we shall see of hoo much in a day or two. . . . Aye, I doot they’ll be wishing they had him at Inverness!”

      “But you cannot send him all the way to Inverness,” protested Keith, rather alarmed. “He is evidently badly wounded—ill. . . .” He dropped on one knee beside Ewen again.

      Guthrie gave a short laugh. “Did I say I was gaun to? Ye maun tak me for a fule, Major. Findin’s keepin’, as they say.—But deil kens,” he added, suddenly dismounting, “hoo I’m tae transport the man even to my ain camp the nicht; I’ve naething tae carry him on, and I dinna jalouse——” Here he too came and stooped over the unconscious figure. “Aye, he’s no’ for sittin’ a horse, that’s plain. I’m thinkin’ I’ll e’en hae to leave him here till the morn, and send doun a party wi’ a litter. There’s ane thing,” he added coolly, raising himself with a shrug of his shoulders, “he’ll no’ rin awa’, and there’s naebody left aboot the place. Aye, that’s what I’ll dae.”

      “You are going to leave him here alone all night, in this state?” exclaimed Keith, loosing the almost pulseless wrist.

      Guthrie stared angrily at him. “Upon my saul, Major! Are ye expectin’ a spital on Ben Loy? For a man on Hawley’s staff ye’re unco tender tae a rebel! If I canna tak the prisoner wi’ me I’ve nae choice but leave him here . . . unless ye’d prefer me tae blaw his harns oot after a’. It’s nane too late for it yet, ye ken.” And he laid a hand on one of his own pistols.

      “No, you are quite right, sir,” said Keith hastily, almost humbly. “I see that you can do nothing else but leave him till the morning.”

      “Sergeant,” called out Major Guthrie, “pit the prisoner ben the hoose again, and dinna fire yon shieling. Noo, Major Keith, in payment for the guid turn ye’ve done me, I’ll hae the pleasure of offerin’ ye hospeetality for the nicht, and settin’ ye on the richt road for Perth, which ye’re no’ on the noo, ye ken!”

      “I am much beholden to you, sir,” replied Keith stiffly. “But I am not aware of having laid you under any obligation.”

      Guthrie