Prince Across the Water (13 page)

He ate like a man starved, and only after eating his fill did he tell us the news. It was news, of course, that Ma was feeding him for. But the news wasn't good.

Leaning back and smiling a thin, grey smile that had no warmth or humor in it, he said, “The English have been getting back Scotland town by town, fort by fort.”

“I'm sorry to hear that,” said Granda, as Ma and Sarah busied themselves clearing the table. “Ye'd have thought the redcoats had learned their lesson.”

“That they have,” McLean said, picking his teeth. “But no the one we'd have them learn.”

Granda leaned forward. “And what do ye mean by that?”

“They learned in the '15 that we would run home. And that they could run after us.”

“Och, man, I was in the '15. With the MacDonalds, in our place of pride, the right wing of the battle line. The place given to us by Robert the Bruce himself, after our bravery at the battle of Bannockburn. Dinna talk of what ye dinna know.”

McLean's grey eyes became slits. “I was there myself, old man. Fighting alongside my father and my brothers and my cousins.”

Granda paused, considered a moment, then put out his hand. “Peace then. Highlander to Highlander.” He turned to Ma. “Another whiskey, Catriona, for my brother-in-arms.”

So now I knew it all. The clans had come home, but with the English right after them, taking back again all that we had won on the way down to London. Ewan was right. There would still be much fighting left.

“The man who's leading the redcoats,” said the traveler, sipping his second dram, “is King George's own son, Cumberland.”

Granda spat on the floor. “Pah! Cumberland's just a fat, pink-faced daddy's boy.”

I started to laugh at that but McLean raised his hand. “He may be young and as fat as a Christmas boar, but he's already made a name for himself on the battlefields of Europe. Dinna dismiss Cumberland, friend. His bite is much worse than his growl.”

“He's an Englishman,” I put in. “And they always run away from a
good
fight.”

McLean leaned over the table and glared at me, his eyes no longer pure grey but struck through with red lines, like lightning against a stark sky. “He's no called the Butcher for nothing,
laddie
. But yer too young and untested to understand what that means.”

“Aye, he is,” Granda agreed.

Ma's hand went to her cheek and for a moment she was as pale as a ghost. “Butcher?” she whispered.

It suddenly felt too close in the cottage. My cheeks burned, and not just from the heat of the fire. I needed to get out into the air. I could feel the tightness around my temples starting, and the beginnings of the firefly flickerings.

If I stayed much longer inside, I might have a fit right there in front of the traveler. So I went outside, and I was not exactly walking slow, either.

It was a cold evening, which the wind made colder, and me outside without my bonnet.

The moon and winter stars shone icily overhead. As soon as I was out of sight of the cottage, I leaned against a lichen-covered tree trunk, hoping to shelter from the wind. Taking three deep breaths, I thought that if I could calm my breathing, let my head clear, I would be fine.

Still, I kept straining my eyes to probe every shadow beneath the trees, looking for a sign of Mairi coming toward me. Thankfully, she was not there, and I knew then that the sickness was passing.

I waited a few minutes more to be sure. It was dark now and the trees had taken on the shapes of giants, their limbs stretching out like gnarled arms. Just then I saw something come drifting through the greenery, a human figure, but thin and faint in the fading light, like a wraith out of one of Granda's tales. Yet my head was no longer throbbing, and I felt clear through and through.

“Mairi?” Her name slipped out, as soft as a sigh.

But it was a man. Not Mairi, not an apparition after all.

As he came closer, I could see that he was
scawt
, scruffy, his clothes hanging loose about him, torn and dirty, greyer even than McLean's had been. His plaid was threadbare. He wore mismatched cuarans on his feet. Only his sword in its sheath was still whole. What he looked like was a corpse that had dug its way out of the grave.

I was rooted to the spot in sheer terror, unable to decide whether to run or—even more shameful—shout for help.

The spectral figure lurched closer until I could see eyes like dying embers under the shadow of his tattered bonnet. The cockade on the bonnet was grey, the badge muddied. His plaid was a dark brown in most places, though a bit of the red showed through.

With a shock I recognized him, even with the pale skin pulled so tight over the bones. Even with the eyes sunken in and the nose now so prominent. Even with the streaks of grey in his hair.

“Da?”

He looked even deader than Mairi when we'd set her in her grave. The tinkers told of such apparitions, how the dead sometimes come home to tell the living how they died.

“Da?”

Did I dare let him follow me home? How would Ma react, seeing him this way, wound in his grave cloth, his eyes like shining coals? Such a sight would kill her on the spot. And Sarah and Andrew would have screaming nightmares for the rest of their lives.

I knew I would have to challenge him here, now. I raised a hand, made a fist.

And then the ghost spoke, its voice creaking like an old wagon wheel. “This is a poor homecoming, Duncan. Have ye nae words of welcome for a weary man?”

His voice broke me, and I ran into his arms like a wee bairn. The arms tightened around me and they were a live man's arms, not a dead man's, though they were so much thinner than I remembered.

“Da,” I said. “Da.” I could barely keep from weeping.

18 THE HOMECOMING

Da hardly spoke on the way home. I started out asking a lot of questions, but quickly realized he wasn't going to answer, or hadn't the breath to answer, so I stopped.

I was angry with him and glad he was safe. I was curious and cautious. I was ready to cry and wanting to laugh all at the same time. It was the strangest sensation, as if I were treading on a boggy moor. One wrong step and I'd sink forever.

We walked back to the cottage in silence. Smoke was billowing out of the chimney and stretching south, like a long, accusing finger. Da let me enter the house first, as though he were a stranger who had to be led inside.

The warmth from the fire hit me like a fist in the face. “Look!” I said brightly. “Look who's come home.”

Ma was at the hearthside, bent over her darning. She glanced up quickly, scowling at me for staying out so late. And, I suppose, for bringing another stranger home. McLean was long gone, but Granda still sat at the table, where he'd been drinking drams with the visitor.

Ma looked past my shoulder and her whole face changed, like candle wax melting. With a whimper, she dropped her needle and thread, stood up shakily, then dashed toward Da. She threw her arms around his neck and sobbed on his shoulder, soaking his grubby plaid.

“Nae, nae,” he said, patting her softly on the back, a gesture of affection I had never seen him use before. “Nae, nae, my darling, hush ye, dinna fret.”

Sarah and Andrew didn't recognize Da at all. They squeezed into a corner, cringing away from this gaunt stranger until he softly called them out by name.

“It's Da,” Andrew whispered.

“But he's got so old,” Sarah whispered back.

They crept forward slowly and let Da pat them gently on the head. “Ye two have grown,” he said, his voice rough and dry.

“Ye have shrunk,” said Sarah, and Andrew elbowed her. Then they both threw themselves at him and he covered their heads with kisses.

I wanted to be young again and kissed that way. But I wasn't. I'd been a man for half a year.

In all this time Granda hadn't shifted from his spot, but now he sat up straight. “Yer a long way from yer proper post, Alisdair,” he said. “Is the battle over and won?”

“Many battles are over and won,” Da said carefully.

“And the final battle? To end the war,” Granda said. “To bring the Stuart what he's come here for.”

“There's been nae such,” Da answered bitterly. “And well ye know it. And there'll be none if good sense prevails.”

“Those are queer words coming from a Glenroy MacDonald,” said Granda. Silently I agreed.

“These are queer times,” answered Da, “when a man returns from a long journey and nobody offers him a scrap of food or a dram.” He took off the belt with the sword and slammed it on the table.

I went to the table, poured a dram of whiskey in a cup for him, then pulled out a stool. He sat down on it heavily and groaned.

At the same time, Ma went to the cupboard and brought out some cheese and oatcakes, setting them on the table. “We had some beef, but …” She looked around as if not sure where the meat had gone, McLean, the hungry stranger, already forgotten.

Da started to eat without taking off his bonnet, stuffing the cheese into his mouth like a starveling, and following the cheese with the oatcakes. It didn't take him long to clear his plate. He washed everything down with a long draught of water taken straight from the pitcher, and a sip of the dram right after.

“Surely there was food at Prince Charlie's camp,” said Granda.

“Do ye think so?” Da challenged him. He poked himself in the ribs. “Do ye no see the state of me? I can count my bones as easy as my fingers these days.”

“An empty belly's nae excuse for failing in yer duty.”

How can he answer that?
I wondered.

Da's voice got dangerously low. “Old man, I was as ready as any to follow the Keppoch and fight for his cause,” he said. “I owe my land and my honor to him. But I owe a duty to my family as well.”

Granda all but growled at him. “It wasna us that took ye away from the prince.”

Da slammed a fist on the table. “We fought hard and marched far, only to be turned around with victory at hand. Led back we were, like sheep, back to the very place we started from, tired and misused.” He took a deep sip of his whiskey. “The prince's gamble has failed, old man, and his cause is finished, and there's not a Highlander come home who'll tell ye otherwise.”

“Finished?”
Granda picked out the one word. “Ye beat the redcoats and marched to London just a few short weeks ago.”

I leaned forward, wondering what Da could say to
that
. Just then, one of the logs on the fire made a popping sound and Da looked up, startled, something almost like fear in his eyes. Then, realizing it was only wood in the hearth making that noise, he said, “More cheese, Catriona. Please.”

She brought over another slab and put it carefully on his plate. He picked it up and tore at it with his teeth. Then he followed this with another sip of whiskey before going on. “Aye, we beat the redcoats in some battles and we beat them to the gates of their own capital city. But dinna fool yerself, old man, they were still an army. And every day they got stronger while every day away from Scotland we got weaker.”

“It's still at the Keppoch's side ye belong,” said Granda, “and at Prince Charlie's. No here.”

Granda was right. The prince needed
all
of his men.

Da's face went white and angry. Two spots of red, like fire, stood on his cheeks. “So ye'd rather see me dead and picked apart by the crows than here caring for my family?”

“I never said that,” said Granda.

He never did
, I thought.

“Aye, ye did,” said Da. “Ye just didna find the right words.”

Ma made a small sound, almost a whimper. I felt like doing the same. Sarah and Andrew each took a handful of Ma's skirts and Sarah put her handful up to her mouth.

“I stood by my chief,” Granda insisted stubbornly. “I didna run off when swords were drawn.”

“And we've heard that story as often as we're minded to,” Ma interrupted, wiping tears from her cheeks with the flat of her hand.

Granda gripped the tabletop and stood up sharply. I could see Ma's words had shocked him, but before he could rebuke her, she spoke again, in a firmer voice this time.

“Old man, ye and yers fought one battle, then ye went home to yer farms. Ye were only away for weeks; Alisdair has been gone half a year. He's been all the way into England, right into the wolf's lair. And God's seen fit to bring him home to tell us about it. What more do ye want? He's yer son. Can ye no be proud of him?” She put her hand on Sarah and Andrew's heads as if to emphasize her point.

Granda's lip quivered, but he couldn't seem to find any words to answer her. Instead he sank back onto his stool and gazed into the fire.

We were all silent after that. Minutes passed, long minutes. The fire began to sink into embers. Da sipped his whiskey and Ma took his plate away. Sarah and Andrew sat down by the fire and rolled a ball of yarn back and forth between them. I just looked at them all, wondering what had just happened and who—if anyone—had been in the right.

At last Da cleared his throat.

“Duncan, go and fetch Mairi in,” he said, starting to sound like himself again. “It's over dark for her to be running about on her own. Ye know how she is.”

The silence that followed was deep as a grave.

I swallowed and looked over to Ma, who turned pale as whey.

“She's … no here, Alisdair.” Ma looked at the floor, suddenly unable to meet Da's eyes.

Da stiffened, but he didn't ask why. He just waited and the silence came again, deep and dark.

It was Granda who told him, with great pity in his voice. “She's been dead these five months, son,” he said. I had never before heard him talk to Da like that, as if he were a boy.

Da looked at Ma, then stared about him as if he'd stumbled into the wrong house. “Could ye no have sent word?”