Mary A. Turzillo - Ben Cruachan.pdf - Mary A. Turzillo - margozap

BEN CRUACHANby MARY A. TURZILLOTHE LAD, HIS GREATCOAT drenched, ice clinging

to his hair and lashes, broughtthe cold smell of sleet into the castle hall

with him. "I beg hospitality of thelaird, if you are he," the lad said, his

voice wee as a bairn's.Duncan motioned for his manservant to build up the

fire. "I'm Laird Campbell,and do you think I would turn away a stranger?"The

lad nodded, not taking his huge, frightened eyes off Duncan."Bring hot

porridge, whiskey, and a straw tick," said Duncan to the manservant.Both he

and the manservant were muzzy, pulled out of sound sleep by the poundingon the

door. "Why are you on the road in such weather?""Men track me like an animal,"

said the lad. "I've run these ten miles, and if Igo a step further, I shall

fall down in the cold and sleep forever.""Give me your wet clothes," said

Duncan, "and take this plaid to wrap aroundyou. You may sleep before the fire

if you wish."The lad flinched away from Duncan, but surrendered his sodden

greatcoat,smelling of wet wool, and took the plaid. The manservant had brought

a bowl ofoats fragrant with added whiskey, and the lad ate it in neat, quick

spoonsful."Why should they make an outlaw of so young a lad, bonnie as you

are?""I have gone afoul of a powerful laird." The lad sank down by the fire

andclosed his dark eyes. "Laird Duncan, I beg a boon.""Ask your boon, lad, and

I'll give it.""Swear to take me under your protection.""It is sworn, lad.""By

Ben Cruachan, swear."The mountain? Ben Cruachan was the sight he saw always

from his home. It wasbeloved ground. But he had already sworn. "By Ben

Cruachan, then, if you must."The lad pulled the plaid over his shoulders and

sank down on the straw tick,turning away from Duncan.Duncan dreamt hideous

dreams that night. His cousin Donald, to whose sisterElizabeth he was

betrothed, came in the dream and addressed him sternly, sayinghe had said what

he should not have said, and done ill by him who was to be hisbrother-in-law.

Duncan woke in a cold sweat and dozed only fitfully the rest ofthe night.At

dawn, Duncan's bagpiper -- for Duncan kept a piper in defiance of the ban

--woke the household with a military air, "Are You Waking Yet, Johnny Cope?"

andthen played a sad song, "The Flowers of the Forest Have Faded Away,"

whichalways made Duncan think of his father's funeral. His father had been

dear tohim, and he remembered strolling with him during that last spring,

pluckingsprigs of forget-me-not, Jacob's ladder, and primrose for the

lasses.But the piper's wail put courage back in Duncan's heart; forgetting his

illdreams, he went down to greet his guest. The youth was up and neatly

dressed,looking less like a drowned cat than the night before. A comely lad,

youngerthan Duncan himself, whose father's death had made him laird when he

wasscarcely a man. The lad's fresh complexion and dark, flashing eyes

pleasedDuncan, as did his elegant manners."What may be your name, that you ask

hospitality of the Campbells?""I am Angus Stewart." The lad looked bashfully

away. The Stewarts were on illterms with the Campbells, and Duncan frowned. He

immediately regretted taking inthis child of discord.But he was a man of

honor, and so sent for bannocks and tea with milk beforequestioning Angus

Stewart further."May I know your crime?" he asked, as soon as was civil.Angus

looked Duncan in the eye. "I killed a man in a fair fight. He had insultedmy

honor. Please -- ' Angus held up a hand, "remember your pledge.""You extracted

this promise from me by trickery," said Duncan thoughtfully, "butif your cause

was honorable, I am bound by it."Angus fell to his knees and kissed Duncan's

hand. "I shall do you whateverservice you wish, if you will shelter

me."Duncan, come so recently to his title, was embarrassed. Such toadying

wasunmanly, and if the lad was to stay, he would have to learn better ways. It

wasunseemly to ask a lad not much younger than he himself to work for his

keep, yetnoble lads -- Duncan felt sure Angus was of noble birth -- often did

menial,hard labor."I trust you know horse grooming?""My Laird, I would serve

you by playing the pipes."An odd request, but Duncan called old Andrew, his

piper, and asked that theStewart lad be instructed along with young Andrew,

the piper's son.All day long, as Duncan went over his accounts before the

fire, he heard tunesplayed: "Carls w' the Breeks," "The Old Sword's Lament,"

and "The FriedPeriwig." Angus had some knowledge, it seemed, for it was only

by listeningclosely that Duncan could hear when the tune was played by the

master, and whenby young Angus.Daylight brightened, the storm abated, and a

man beat on Duncan's gate: oldRobert Campbell, his uncle who was to be his

father-in-law.Robert Campbell strode into the hall and tore off his bonnet.

"You harbor onewho has spilled blood, Duncan Campbell, and you must give the

murderer up."In the far corner of the castle, Duncan could hear the bagpipe

lessons going on:"The Bells of Perth." The skirl of the practice chanter made

the hair of hisneck suddenly stand on end. He rose and with two strides was at

the mantel wherehis claymore lay."I have sworn protection to the

killer."Robert put his hand to his own claymore. "Then I fear you've done

unwisely,Duncan, and it shall go ill with you when you come to fetch Elizabeth

as yourbride. The one you shelter has murdered Donald, your own cousin."Horror

and confusion rose in Duncan's heart, but he had given his word. He said,"Be

that as it is. My word is my bond." His hand tightened on the claymore."You

will regret that pledge," said Robert.Duncan stood in the open door and

watched Robert mount and ride away in thefreezing rain.Duncan's anger boiled

within him. Angus Stewart had made him give his word,after killing his cousin

and his friend, the man who was brother to his beloved!He strode into the

chamber where old Andrew instructed the lad, and curtlydismissed his

piper."What do you mean, seeking the oath of the cousin of the man you

killed?" hesaid."I have done nothing --"Duncan struck the lad on the cheek,

knocking him backward into the wall.Young Stewart sank to his knees before

Duncan and tore open his shirt.Duncan staggered backward. No flat chest, hairy

as a man's or smooth as a boy's,was revealed beneath that shirt, but two full,

bonny breasts as ripe asSeptember apples."Do what you will with me," said the

stranger, "but remember your pledge."Duncan raked a hand through his beard.

"What manner of creature are you?""I am a lass," said young Stewart. "My true

name is Annie, and I disguisedmyself in man's dress." She fluffed out her dark

hair, bit her lips and flushed,and he marveled how he could ever have thought

her a lad."Well, cover yourself," Duncan said, feeling the color creep over

his own face.Instead she reached her arms out. "Remember your pledge! Donald

your cousintried to ravish me, and I defended myself as a good woman ought. I

didn't meanto kill him, but my wee knife slipped."Duncan turned his eyes away,

but the lass seized his hands and pressed them toher lips. He could feel the

heat of her bosom, smell her skin, and he was movedby dark passions. "This

must be a lie," he said. "Donald was a mild man, marriedto the bonniest lass

in Inverawe save my own beloved. He cannot have tried toravish you."She

sobbed, "I swear to you, by Ben Cruachan, and by St. Andrew.""You are free

with oaths, lass." Duncan tried halfheartedly to pull his handaway."See these

bruises on my neck and bosom," she said. "I got them in defense of

mymaidenhead."Duncan looked, as she opened the shirt further and displayed a

few faint marks,one on the base of her throat, and another near her roseblush

nipple. He wasalways a passionate man, and in his anger, the sight stirred

him."Honor your word," she said in a wee voice.Duncan jerked his hand away.

"Stay far from my piper and my other people," hesaid. "Robert will be back. I

do na doubt that he went to get his other sons."Then he seized her hand and

dragged her back into the hall. There, he called fora servant to make up a

bundle of bread, whiskey, and woolen rugs. "I know of acave where I played

when I was a lad," said Duncan. "Robert will not find youthere." And when she

hesitated, "Come. Darkness is falling and the way will betreacherous for the

horse."All the way to the cave they rode Duncan's fine mare, Annie Stewart

ridingastride in her lad's clothes, her arms around Duncan. When Duncan lifted

herdown in the cold dark, he smelled her hair, fragrant despite her hard

dealings."I shall freeze here," she said."Do na think of making a fire,"

Duncan said. "I can leave you the one rug. Wraptight in it and stay deep in

the cave."She held out her arms to him. "Warm me before you go."Duncan knew

well that she was enticing him, this murderer of his bride'sbrother, but he

went to her, lay on the thick woolen rug with her and wrapped itaround them.

"You'll be warm enough with a nip of whiskey," he said.She held him the

tighter, wrapping narrow, strong arms about his waist. She didnot seem cold;

indeed her thinly covered bosom pressed against his chest withfeverish

heat."That's enough, lass," he said. "You'll be warm enough till morning. Then

youcan move around and stir your blood."She buried her face in the hollow of

his neck. Her hair fell silkily across hischeek, and the odor of her sweat

stirred him."Your arms are strong," she said in a low husky tone. "I wish it

had been youinstead of Donald."Despite her wiles, desire rose in him, unquiet

and harsh. He asked, "What do youwant with me?""Swear to protect me, Duncan.

Swear by Ben Cruachan, on your dirk." She reacheddown and took his dirk from

its sheath. The dirk, shaped like Christ's cross,betokened a man's honor.

Placing it against her bosom, she took his hand andpressed against it.

"Swear.""I've sworn," he said."Again.""Yes, yes, I swear!"He lay longer with

her, and her hands strayed under his kilt like flowers blownagainst his naked

skin. Beyond thinking, he stroked her hips. His hands withouthis will undid

her male disguise and she took him into her.Whether she was maiden or not,

Duncan could not tell. She might have been, washis last waking thought.As he

slept on the hard, rocky floor of the cave, wrapped with thismurderer-lass, a

dream came to him."Duncan, beware! You lie with a witch, a changeling."Duncan,

in his dream, sat upright and cried, "Donald, cousin! What do you wantof

me?""Revenge. Take up your dirk and kill the witch.""Donald, forgive me, but I

swore on that very dirk to protect her.""You have sworn ill, cousin." And from

the face and breast of the apparitionstreamed blood, spattering Duncan until

he woke."By Christ, Donald! Have pity on me."Annie Stewart opened her eyes

sleepily. "Honey-love, what's wrong?" Despite hisshame his passions rose again

and he went into her.Shivering when the cold air hit his sweating body, Duncan

went to the mouth ofthe cave and looked out. First light crept across the

valley. His horse he couldsee dimly in a patch of gorse down the path, where

it had sheltered. "I must begone," he muttered.From somewhere below came the

drone of bagpipes so faint Duncan could scarcelymake out the tune: "The

Flowers of the Forest." Seized with fear, he looked overhis shoulder. But

Annie was still asleep in the darkness.When he looked again into the valley,

he thought he saw a man walk up the path.The wail of the bagpipes grew louder

as the dark figure loomed nearer. Duncan'shair stood on end, and he smelled

the bitter, bright odor lightning makes in theair.The apparition stopped and

said: "Farewell, cousin! Since you will na revenge mydeath, I shall see you na

more till Ticonderoga."Duncan fell to his knees on the path, doubled over with

horror and guilt.Finally, he felt for his dirk in its sheath, but he had left

it beside Annie inthe cave.THE NEXT YEAR, Duncan smoothed over his quarrel

with Robert by saying that hehad cast the murderer out where she was sure to

die of cold, and so he was ableto marry Donald's sister Elizabeth. He was

perhaps too quick to forgive himselfthe sin of ill-advised swearing but

reasoned that he had been tricked.When his wife asked why he always wanted to

roam, to go with the soldiers, hesaid only that he feared his death at a place

called Ticonderoga. Since Donaldhad spoken of it, it must be a place nearby,

so he would rove far. Duncan andElizabeth had sons, fine military men, and

Duncan himself became a major in theForty-second Highlanders.Everywhere that

his regiment went, Duncan asked if one had heard this strangename,

Ticonderoga, and no one knew even what land it was in, though some avowedit

must be an Irish or a Scottish village so far set in the mountains that

nonehad heard of it.When Duncan was a man of forty-five, his Majesty sent the

Forty-secondHighlanders to serve under General James Abercromby, to take a

colonialfortification, Fort Carillon, from the French. With Duncan went his

eldest sonand young Albert, the piper whose father had served when Duncan was

young.Duncan was used to cold, and rain, and meager rations, but the colonies

imposeda different kind of hardship. When the Forty-second landed at Lake

George, hisbrogues, stockings, and legs were covered with mud after only a few

paces on thebank. Insects stung him, and in his Black Watch tartan the heat

made his skinitch. Instead of the fine vistas of his homeland, there seemed

only the endlesslake, stinking of mud and shadowed by an impassably thick

forest.The French who held Fort Carillon under Montcalm were known to be few

and poorlyprovisioned, but the French-allied Natives were fierce fighters who

torturedtheir captives. Their weakness, he understood, was whiskey, and

Duncan, like allhis men, carried with him a small flask of Scotch whiskey, a

possible barter forhis life.Duncan had private misgivings about Abercromby,

who was never an enterprisingcommander, and at the moment, he suspected, had

the flux from bad water.Fort Carillon, Duncan understood, was a gateway to

Lake Champlain and the otherfreshwater seas that the French held. Abercromby

did have the imagination torealize that the thick forest was enemy to those

who did not know the land. Amagnificent waterfall was near the site of the

fort, and yet the thunder of itswaters seemed to come from all directions. So

Abercromby determined that a smalladvance force, led by Lord Howe, his

charismatic second in command, should scoutthe land around the falls and the

fort, and should draw up maps for a plan ofbattle.Howe's men stumbled into a

French reconnaissance force and defeated it. ButHowe, who had always been more

popular than Abercromby, was killed, which muchdemoralized the entire

army.Abercromby determined that a smaller force should scout further, and

Duncan wasto lead this group.So at dawn, Duncan and a group of Forty-second

Highlanders, taking with them abagpiper for communication and morale, set out

toward the falls, led by theAmerican colonial scout, Horatio "Polecat"

Spotswood.The troop trudged through deep wood and meadow, Polecat pointing out

landscapefeatures. Near the falls, they encountered a deep ravine."By St.

Andrew, there must be a clearing beyond," Duncan announced, "A goodplace for

the French to reconnoiter.""Tarnation, sir! There's foul water and varmints

down there!" Polecat warned.But Duncan crashed through thicket to the bottom,

crossed a lively brookcanopied by forest, and climbed the other side.He

clambered up, hauling himself by vines and roots smelling of crushed

leaves,until, near the other side, he had to stop and rest. His hands and

knees wereraw from the rough bark and stones. The falls thundered nearby, but

unseen, andhe longed to plunge into cold water, to sooth the rash he had from

thethree-leaved vines and the insect bites.As he drew breath, he saw a pair of

dark, naked legs, only a few feet above him.He raised his gaze to look into

the sardonic eyes of a dark Native, who seemedamused by a kilted Scotsman's

Black Watch tartan, sporran, and other regalia.Indeed, Duncan would have been

equally amused at the outrageous costume of thepainted Native, with its beads,

leathers, and feathers, had his position notbeen so precarious."Je vais vous

crever!" Duncan yelled, groping for his pistol. It was the direstFrench threat

he could think, and he was certain this was a Frenchallied Indian.Worse luck,

the man probably spoke no white man's language.The Native held up a musket,

still with an air of detached amusement. "I speakyour language, English man.

Your uniform, however, is strange. More beautifulthan the French, the English,

or any of the colonials.""I'm Scots, damn it," said Duncan, lowering the

pistol, but not putting it away.The Indian did not have a red ribbon tied

around his musket to signal Britishalliance, and the weapon itself appeared to

be of French issue. "Of theForty-second Highlanders.""Tell me why I should not

kill you now," said the Native.Duncan heaved himself up to the level of the

Native and looked him in the eye."I do not fear death today.""All men die.

Perhaps I have your death in my gun here. Or perhaps I shall putyou to the

test. Will you cry out, Highlander, when my brothers peel off yourscalp, or

roast you slowly? Can you keep silent, grub-colored man?"Duncan thought he

could hear his heart beat, even over the roar of the falls. "Imay be mortal,

but I shall na die here, lad. A ghost has doomed that I shall dieat a place

called Ticonderoga."The enemy laughed, a single barking laugh. "Do you not

know the name of thisplace, Highlander?""The name is Fort Carillon, for the

sound of the falls, which are calledCarillon Falls.""Listen to the water."And

Duncan listened to the chime-like falls."My people have a fancy that the falls

sing a sound like Ti-con-deroga."Duncan felt cold wash over his skin as if the

falls themselves had drenched him.At the same time, bagpipe music liked over

the ravine, playing "The Flowers ofthe Forest." Duncan glanced away from the

Native, and when he looked back, theman was gone.He shook his head, as if he

had seen another ghost. Ticonderoga! The pipe musicstopped, and the piper

started another tune, "The Lament for the Only Son." Itwas his own piper,

playing to lead him back to the scouting party.When Duncan reported to

Abercromby, he told the General that there was highground, called by the

colonial American Mount Defiance, and that Abercrombyshould put his cannon

atop it, from whence he could bombard the Fort and forcethe French to

surrender."No time, no time," said Abercromby, chewing his thumbnail.

"Montcalm hasreinforcements of seven thousand men who will join him by

nightfall, and withthem a huge complement of redskins.""Begging your pardon,

sir, but the Fort will contain na more than four hundred.""They'll hold the

Heights of Carillon, which is high ground, Major Campbell."So the cannon sat

useless, still on the batailles, and Abercromby ordered aSuperintendent

Johnson with his Natives to the top of Mount Defiance. Duncanbowed his head

stoically before that stupidity, knowing their muskets did nothave the range

to discomfit the French.Duncan fell asleep thinking of his homeland, which he

knew he would never seeagain, of the gorse and bracken, the scent of purple

heather, of beautiful BenCruachan and Inverawe, the lochs and the mountains

all soft gray and green, ofhis sons at home and his son who was with him, and

of his sweet Elizabeth. Hedreamed that night of a man's voice, familiar from

the shades of time: "Duncan,you may na turn away. Go to your death with

honor." And a woman's: "Fly, Duncan.There is still time. In the forest your

Black Watch tartan will be nearinvisible and you can after join your comrades

and pretend you were in thebattle.""How could I face men who had braved death

when I fled? How could I face mysons, or my Elizabeth?""Ah, Duncan, Duncan!

You could be a landholder here. For women's company, youcould have a Native

lass, or I would come to you, not as a wraith, but alive andwarm."Duncan felt

himself bum with love for life; he remembered the scent of everylass he had

ever loved. He wanted to live.But he wanted his own wife, his own sons, his

own Highland castle, and most ofall himself -- his honor.He awoke to the

certainty of his fate. When the day of the battle dawned,Abercromby ordered

his infantry, together with the Forty-second Highlanders, tostorm the French

defenses.And then it became apparent what defenses the French had created.

Montcalm, theFrench General, had ordered his men to fell trees, top branches

sharpened andpointing toward the English enemy. It created an impenetrable

thicket ofbranches and sharpened poles, all pointing outward. This wall of

thorns andlog-spears -- called an abatis -- was higher than a man's head, and

thirty toforty feet in depth. French musketeers could hide in its depths and

fire atwill, but the British allies would be pierced on the branches, open to

enemyfire. Their own bullets would do no good against the wall of

branches.When Duncan saw this he knew that he had met his doom. Abercromby was

mad tothink that anything short of cannon could make a hole in this wall. It

was hisfate to lead his men against this wall, his deadly fate.The pipers

played the tune that called for advance, and Duncan waded into thefray,

loading and firing at every glint that might have been a French fleur delys.

Gunsmoke smelled harsh and hot as he fought. When he ran out of balls, heknelt

amid the thicket and struck sparks with his flint. He managed to setseveral

fires; but when he retreated a few paces, French soldiers quenched themwith

water.Duncan still had his sword. Knowing that he was to die gave him a

strangefreedom. It was as if all the bonds of his nature had been cut loose.

He struckat the branches with his sword, making headway toward the enemy. He

had almostcrawled through the last space into the French defenses when a sharp

painblossomed in his chest.He stumbled a few feet further, then fell, hearing

the piper play, "Are YouWaking Yet, Johnny Cope?" A dark shape materialized

above him."Whiskey," he said, soundlessly, and by some miracle the shape -- it

was his ownson -- bent over him and dribbled a few sweet drops on his lips. I

will die withmy mouth full of Scotland after all, thought Duncan.And then he

was in a mist. His son was gone, along with the roar of the battle.And yet he

could smell the smoke and the raw, torn wood. A tall man came up onhis right

side. "Duncan, I've come for you. You swore amiss those years ago whenyou

protected the Stewart woman. She was a liar, a witch, and a murderess, butshe

dazzled you as she did me, and I forgive you.""Donald," said Duncan."Up with

you, my kinsman. A short walk, and we can rest forever." He offered

hishand.But there was another shape, too. Breathless, its hair a dark corona,

Mary A. Turzillo - Ben Cruachan.pdf

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