Highland Justice Page 4

  ‘Where was Peter today? He could have at least come for Morris’s funeral. Och, never mind…I’m tired an I be goin’ to bed.’

  The following morning, as Cameron prepared to leave, he was quite surprised to find his grandmother was not yet downstairs. Grabbing the post at the bottom of the stairs, he turned and looked up.

  ‘Nan…Nan, are you comin’ down?’

  Getting no reply, and now thinking the worst, he hurried up the stairs, rapped on her bedroom door, and without waiting for a reply, walked in.

  ‘Canna anyone get any privacy about here?’ Helen exclaimed, half out of bed and reaching for her dressing gown.

  ‘Sorry, Nan. I were just a wee bit worried about you. I’ll fetch you a nice cup of tea before I leave. I’m goin’ out to the old cottage to clean it up before I go back to Huntly.’

  ‘Do somethin’ for me, Cameron. Can you stop by the police station on your way an pick up your father’s things…an then, just get rid of them.’

  ‘All right, Nan…Oh, and I just remembered, I saw Constable Stevenson the other day and he said the accident report would be ready today so, I’ll pick up a copy while I’m there.’

  For a moment an evil look passed over Helen’s face as her eyes turned coal-black.

  ‘Accident they say? Ha! That’ll be the day any Stewart is accidentally shot by a Campbell!’

  ‘Good mornin’, Mr Stewart. Ah did wonder when we might be seein’ ye.’

  It would be that fat slob of a sergeant on duty, Cameron thought, as he walked over to the reception desk, remembering him well, from that early morning wake-up all those years before.

  ‘Sorry about yer father’s terrible accident… Mind you, if he had no been trespassin’ ...’

  ‘Thanks very much for your heartfelt sympathy. Just give me his belongin’s.’

  Grabbing the bag hoisted onto the desk by the sergeant, Cameron turned, and with undisguised loathing made his way out of the police station.

  As he wandered along the rutted track winding its way down the hillside towards his old home, he was lost in thought. He had never seen his grandmother show such anger before, even if it was only fleeting; and the confrontation with the police sergeant had also unsettled him. He knew from his schooling and from quiet conversations he’d had with his friends at work that, there were still plenty of people in the Highlands who hated the English and their Scottish collaborators. But he was determined not to make the same mistakes as some of his ancestors had. There was no proof his father’s death had been anything but a tragic accident, and as far as he was concerned it was time to let the past fade into history.

  After a while, his mind returned to his immediate task. He was certainly not looking forward to the memories, both good and bad, that he knew would be waiting to wreak havoc on his emotions; and worst of all, he now began to feel a deepening sense of guilt welling up inside of him.

  In his last year at school, he had only seen his father on Saturdays at work. And since

  joining the railway he’d been even more remiss, using up most of his spare time with Duncan, or on short trips to Dufftown to see Helen.

  The door opened with an eerie creak. After stepping into the dilapidated old shack, he found it hard to believe that anyone could have lived in such a disgusting hovel. The stink of dead animals and rotten fish permeated the atmosphere, and the sight of years of filth and disorder saddened his heart. Once more, self-recrimination invaded his thoughts. Would it have helped if he’d seen more of his father? Or maybe if he had tried to intervene earlier, his father’s death could have been avoided. But in his heart he knew that what had happened was probably inevitable, as his father, like many others, had made it his mission to harry, cheat, and where possible, exact his revenge.

  Cameron spent the rest of the morning lugging everything that was moveable outside and stacking it in a huge pile in a clearing behind the cottage. Things that wouldn’t burn, such as his father’s illegal traps, which he’d found still hidden behind the false panel in the back of the shed, he buried in a hole dug in a nearby copse.

  A few hours later, he sat on a boulder near the warm glow of the fire. The pyre crackled and burned, quickly consuming the record of his father’s transgressions and meagre lifestyle. Staring into the fire, he was absorbed by the tumbling, twisting flakes of ash carried heavenwards by the blaze. A smile spread across his face as he remembered those wonderful days spent together. And for a moment it seemed his imagination had overwhelmed him when, through tear-misted eyes, he was sure he saw his father’s face smiling back at him from the flames.

  Soon, the job of sweeping out the accumulated years of dust and dirt was nearly complete. A mask might have been a good idea, he mused, coughing for the umpteenth time as the broom’s movement created an almost impenetrable fog of detritus. Moving through the doorway into his parents’ old bedroom, he headed to the far corner where the bed had stood. Unexpectedly, with the first sweep of the broom a plank dislodged, coming to rest on the toe of his right boot. Bending over, Cameron picked it up, but in the process of replacing it his eye was drawn to what appeared to be some old bits of rag lying in the dirt below the floorboards.

  ‘Nan…it’s me,’ Cameron yelled, as he came through the front door of her house.

  In his right hand, pressed against his body, he carried a flat, rectangular-shaped object wrapped in some old tartan cloth; while in his left was a similarly covered article, but this time cylindrical in shape.

  ‘Wait ’till you see what I found,’ he exclaimed, strutting into the lounge and giving Helen a peck on the cheek. ‘They be under the floorboards in the cabin.’

  Helen sat up, her back rigid.

  ‘Oh, no…not those,’ she murmured, as with a gasp she sank back into her chair.

  ‘What’s the matter, Nan? ’Tis only some old bible and some kind of flag or other from the old days. I have no looked at them very careful, but I presume they be somethin’ father must have found…or worse, stolen.’

  ‘Och, Cameron…I only wish that be true.’

  Setting the objects down in front of the hearth, he then knelt beside Helen.

  ‘Why do these old things bother you so?’

  ‘More of that later, Cameron…But for now, I’m goin’ upstairs to fetch ma shawl… then I’ll prepare our meal. We be goin’ to have mince an tatties for a change.’

  It was getting dark outside, and the wind was beginning to howl, bringing with it cold draughts from under the front door and through the gaps around the poorly fitting windows.

  Cameron knelt in front of the hearth, prodding the burning logs with a twisted metal poker as he anxiously awaited Helen’s appearance; all the while gazing at the fire dancing and flickering, as sparks, like miniature stars, were carried upward into the chimney. I wonder what could be so significant about those dusty old relics, he mused, listening to the rattle of dishes and cutlery coming from the kitchen.

  The front room was warm and cosy as he and his grandmother finally settled into their chairs. Reaching down, she grasped the bible, and with some effort hoisted the large, leather-bound tome onto the table at her side. For the moment she left it closed; and then began to recount the story that all true Scots would have heard in one form or another since 1746.

  For over an hour, Cameron listened as Helen relived the story of the aftermath of Culloden. She described in detail how “Butcher Cumberland” had chased Charles Edward Stuart – now affectionately known as Bonnie Prince Charlie – across Scotland, murdering the Prince’s supporters as he went: how the young Prince had escaped to France with the help of a few loyal supporters; and how he had promised he would return with the French army and throw out the English.

  ‘But, as I know you must be aware, Cameron, that oath was ne’er kept. Because soon after he fled, the English Parliament signed a peace treaty with the French. All we know for certain is that Bonnie Prince Charlie never returned to Scotland an died some forty years later in Rome.’

  ‘I
still no see what this has to do with us, Nan…after all, we’re descended from lowland Stewarts…are we no?’

  Helen seemed to hesitate; and for a moment Cameron wondered if she was now too exhausted to continue.

  Then, with a wistful sigh she carried on.

  ‘In order to survive the massacre, the remainin’ Highland Stuarts quickly changed their names to Stewart. And…well…look here.’

  Helen opened the bible to its third page, where ornately scrolled and framed in gilt were the words Family Register. Directly below this title, the page was lined and handwritten in ink.

  ‘These be your ancestors, Cameron, and your great-great-grandfather is here,’ she said, pointing to the second name down from the top.

  Cameron expected to see his great-great grandfather Donald’s name, but what he

  was not expecting to see was his family name being spelt S.T.U.A.R.T.

  ‘So…I guess I be a true Highlander then? But that’s all history. Does it really

  matter now?’

  ‘I’m afraid it does.’

  Helen reached over, picking up the bright yellow cloth bearing a rampant red lion, rolled around a wooden staff.

  ‘This rolled up old flag, as you call it, just happens to be the Royal Standard of the Stuarts, and was carried into battle by your great-great grandfather.’

  ‘Well, surely that’s just a wee keepsake then?’

  ‘Oh, Cameron…that it certainly is not. To the Highlander families it’s a reminder of all they suffered...and proof that your ancestor ran from the battlefield with the Prince. While to the English, it’s a sign of the burning resentment still present today and is somethin’ that could be used to rally trouble in the future.’

  Helen now looked completely exhausted. Her eyes were sullen and her face grey and drawn.

  ‘I must be off to bed now,’ she mumbled, as she struggled to pull herself from her chair. ‘But before I do…I beg of you, Cameron…please…take those things away and get rid of them…once and for all.’

  ‘I will, Nan…dinna you bother yourself. You’ll never see them again.’

  The crew battled on that year through pelting autumnal rain and early winter snow showers. Finally, as Christmas approached, track laying was halted. At the end of that week all the men were brought together in the depot for an announcement from the management.

  ‘Men…As Ah’m sure ye be aware, there is no sufficient light during the day now to make track layin’ practical. So, Ah be instructed by the company to tell ye that when ye come back from Christmas, the workin’ day will start at eight o’clock an finish at four.’

  Loud cheering erupted, accompanied by whistling and clapping. The foreman raised his right hand, slowly moving it back and forth as a signal for them to curb their enthusiasm.

  ‘Before ye get too excited…Ah should warn ye that at the same time there’ll be a reduction in pay to reflect the new workin’ hours.’

  As he stepped down from the coach in Dufftown, a blast of arctic-like air assaulted Cameron’s body. At the same time, the glow from the gas streetlamp on the corner of Fife St. and Balvenie wavered, as if it too was feeling the attack from the north.

  Cameron had three days off for Christmas, and he was determined the weather was not

  going to spoil his time off. In the bag slung over his shoulder was a full bottle of whisky and a new coat he’d bought for his grandmother. And, as a special treat for their supper that night, he had ordered some bannocks from the baker to have with the piece of salmon that he’d bought – which now lay carefully wrapped in the bottom of his bag.

  The extended Christmas weekend with Helen had been peaceful and enjoyable. She had loved her coat, but was dismayed that he had wasted all that money on her. Cameron had amused her with stories of the antics he got up to with his crew; and astounded her with the news that the mail from London now got to Aberdeen in just two days! For a lot of the weekend, though, Helen had seemed unusually quiet, until finally on Sunday evening she broke the news.

  ‘I just thought you should know…I’ve had a letter from Margaret.’

  ‘That’s nice. Are she and Peter well?’

  ‘No, they not be all that well. Peter lost his job a while back, and has no been able to find any other employment.’

  ‘But…I thought Elgin was a prosperous town, with plenty of building work takin’ place because of the imminent arrival of the railway?’

  ‘Margaret asked me no to tell anyone but…I suppose it does no matter now. Peter has taken up with the evils of drink…and because of this he can no find any employment. So, last month they applied for government assisted passage to the Colonies… and it has just been approved. They be leavin’ for Canada at the end of March.’

  ‘Och…I’m sure a new start is probably just what they need,’ Cameron said, trying to make light of the situation for Helen’s sake.

  ‘I suppose,’ she replied, gazing forlornly into the fire.

  Three days later, Cameron was jarred from his slumber by the loud crack of a whip and a sharp pain to the side of his head. With a jerk, the coach swayed back to the left as the driver recovered the carriage from another frozen rut in the road. Twenty minutes later, they arrived at Huntly Station and, after grabbing his bag, Cameron jumped down from the coach, bidding farewell to the driver. Then, pulling up his collar and shoving his hands into his pockets, he headed for the depot.

  That winter was brutal. And what made it worse was that it seemed to last forever. Even in England, people began to wonder if it would ever end; especially when in Nottinghamshire, on March 11th, the night time temperature fell to 13 degrees Fahrenheit. Still, there was one positive aspect arising from the populations’ adversity. The English Government were spurred on to approve, and pay, for more assisted passages to the New World than ever before.

  Margaret and Peter left Liverpool on March 28th, duly arriving in Quebec thirty days later. Unsurprisingly, those on government paid passage did not get accommodated on the newer steam-assisted ships, so were forced to endure a long, tiring voyage by sail.

  It was with some relief, when three months later, Helen received a letter from her

  granddaughter confirming that all was well. Apparently, she and Peter had now moved on to some land given to them by a generous Canadian Government, and were moving ahead with the building of their new home.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Another year had almost passed when, at the beginning of December, the line to Keith was completed. Celebrations took place welcoming the town’s connection to the new industrial era; but Cameron and Duncan’s participation was limited to viewing the proceedings from behind a five-foot high stone wall on the opposite side of the track to the station.

  The promised opening of the new textile mill had been delayed, so the anticipated harvest of congenial young ladies had not taken place. However, during the last year, Duncan’s pursuit of the opposite sex had been reasonably successful – although Cameron did have serious doubts as to the virtue of one or two of his conquests. As for Cameron, well, he did manage to go out with two different ladies, but they had both left him feeling dissatisfied.

  When the next season began, the crew started on the 11 mile line from Keith to Dufftown. The Company’s intention was to be in Dufftown by the end of September, so that they could transfer Cameron’s crew to the more pressing task of extending the main line to Inverness.

  But once more, nature conspired to make her presence felt and exact her toll of misery.

  Cameron was standing alongside Rob, one of the new men hired at the end of the previous season. Suddenly, his hands seemed to have a will of their own as they began to shake uncontrollably. He and Rob looked at each other, and then dropped the rail that they’d just begun to lift from the flat-car. Seconds later, Cameron became aware of his legs beginning to tremble; while at the same time a terrified voice cried out.

  ‘Look out! Run!’

  Cameron glanced to his left, and froze. Suddenly, the wh
ole mountain seemed to come alive. The hillside rumbled and groaned, the volume of noise magnifying by the second. With a deafening crack trees began to snap, and boulders bounced down the hillside, crushing everything in their paths. Fishplates were torn up like paper and, as Cameron continued to stare, part of the track that had just been laid was wrenched free from its adjacent rails. Metal spikes, which until moments ago attached rails to sleepers, were shot into the air like bullets, eventually falling back to earth to join the already cascading maelstrom of debris.

  ‘Get doon,’ Rob yelled, yanking on Cameron’s arm.

  Both men ducked behind the flat-car, spluttering and coughing as they were hit by a gale-force wind of dust, dirt, pieces of bark and pine needles. The tempest forced its way into every opening, making it temporarily impossible to see and nigh on impossible to breathe.