Murdo's War (27 page)

‘You know him?’

‘Aye. He’s a well-known man, that. I used to be down in Helmsdale at the fishing when I was first married. He had a little boat there. He wasn’t much more than a boy like yourself then. But he was wild. Everybody knew Hector Gunn. The things he could do with that boat – the things he got up to! We joined up together in the First War – went to the Navy.’ For a moment his old eyes were reflective then he returned to the present. ‘I still see him from time to time at the sheep sales. I used to see your dad, too, come to that. Not that I knew him well. But next time you see Hector Gunn, you tell him you were talking to Duncan Beg.’ Murdo buttered another piece of toast and spread it with marmalade. But he had no sooner bitten into it than he knew he did not want it. A lurch of nausea went from his stomach to his head
and he thought he would be sick. He took another bite of the toast, but it was suddenly uneatable, like cardboard in his mouth. He chewed it into a paste, but only by a great effort got it down his throat. The sweat broke out on his forehead. He laid the toast on his plate and put the tray on the floor. As he lowered his head the nausea swept through him again and he pulled himself up quickly. As soon as it had passed he slid down under the blankets.

For a while the shepherd did not notice. He shook his head slowly from side to side.

‘Well, they might find the cottage by accident, I suppose, if they’re still searching after the blizzard – but I doubt it. You came an unlikely way from the lodge. You can’t see the cottage from the tops, you have to walk down the ridge a bit and know where to look. But if they have a map – and they are bound to, I should say – well, Corriebreck is the only cottage west of the clachan at Braemore. It’s the only shelter. They’ll have to look. But if you’re not here...’ He paused and thought of Murdo’s condition when he arrived the night before. ‘Aye, they’d be right enough to reckon you are probably dead. The snow started again about an hour after you came in. It’s snowed off and on all through the night. There’ll not be a trace of your footprints anywhere now.’

‘Would they get across the bogs?’ Murdo asked.

Duncan Beg nodded. ‘It’s not so bad when you can see and just keep to the high ground. But if they want to come to Corriebreck, the best way is to take a car round to the east coast, and then come up from Berriedale. If the roads are clear, that is. They might even get as far as Braemore, then it’s only a six mile walk up the track.’

‘Corriebreck?’ Murdo said.

‘Here. This croft.’

Murdo pictured Henry Smith and his men trudging up the snowy glen towards the cottage, rifles on their backs. And he lay in bed, waiting for them.

‘You’ll have to be careful,’ the old man said. ‘If they bring up one of the other groups to help in the search, you won’t know what they look like. All the army boys from round here are being sent south now – you saw one of the troop trains yesterday. And every news is full of the build-up on the French coast. It could hardly be bigger. And you know the plan for the whole invasion. With knowledge like that you can’t afford to take any chances. Nor can they.’

Murdo’s face was pale, his hair and eyes black on the white pillow. ‘What do you think they’ll do?’ he asked.

‘It’s hard to say. I think they’ve got to look for you before the snow starts again. If the roads are clear they will probably drive round to the east coast and come up the glen. If they are not, then they’ll have to come over the hill. But I wouldn’t like to do it, not with the hills the way they are now – and then have to walk back again.’

Fingering the tight bandage as he listened, Murdo got a sharp nip from his wound.

‘What do you think I should do?’ he asked.

‘If you are up to it, I think you should make your way down to Braemore and see Johnny Murray. There’s a phone there and one or two people who could give you a hand. If the phone’s off with the snow, and it usually is, he will run you down to Berriedale on the tractor. It’s only another six or seven miles down the river.’

Murdo looked at Duncan Beg. Clearly he was well on in years, but many of the old shepherds were fit and strong.

‘You couldn’t come with me?’ he said.

No sooner had he spoken than he regretted the words. A shadow settled on the old man’s face.

‘I would if I could, boy. I’m sorry. A mile down the road when the weather’s warm is about all I can manage these days.’

‘It’s all right,’ Murdo said. ‘I’ll manage fine.’

‘You’re sure?’ For the first time the old man seemed to see the perspiration on Murdo’s brow, the heavy look in his eyes. ‘If I was five years younger I would go with you in a minute. If Angus was here he would be halfway to Braemore already. But I’m afraid you’re on your own.’

‘Angus?’ Murdo said. ‘Is that your son?’

The shepherd nodded. ‘Away in the army – in the tanks with Monty. Only the two of us left now, since the wife died and Mary and Hughina went off to get married.’

Murdo looked away sympathetically, and the old man got up.

‘Well, if you get dressed,’ he said. ‘I’ll show you the way. From the look of the sky over Carn Mor, I don’t think you should waste any time.’

He went out, carrying the breakfast tray, and Murdo climbed out of bed. His clothes were downstairs. The shepherd had lowered the pulley before the fire and they were nearly dry. Even though he had been put into pyjamas the night before, he did not like unnecessarily to change before a stranger and carried them back to the bedroom. Five minutes later he was dressed and ready to leave.

‘How’s the leg?’ the old man asked as he limped into the living room fastening the buckle of his jacket.

‘It’s a bit stiff,’ Murdo replied. ‘It’ll loosen up with walking.’

‘Do you want anything to eat with you?’

‘No thank you,’ Murdo said. ‘I’m full, And it’s only – six miles, you said?’

‘That’s right. Come here, and I’ll show you.’

He led the way to the front door and round the end of the barn. The river which Murdo had crossed the previous evening wound down the glen, shrunk to an irregular black ribbon between the banks of ice. On either side of the valley rough slopes, heavy with snow, rose to the high crests of the moors. Beyond, four or five miles downstream, a massive white mountain hunched its shoulders beneath a weight of clouds. Dark blue and black they reared and spread above the white slopes.

‘Aye, it doesn’t look too good,’ the old man said, following Murdo’s eyes. ‘We’re always in for a bit of dirty weather when it comes in like that over Carn Mor.’ He looked critically around the sky. ‘But I think you’ll be all right as far as Braemore. Look, you see the track.’ He pointed to a white path that wound through the heather and away down the glen. ‘Follow the track all the way, it will take you straight to Braemore. If you lose the path with the snow, just keep to the left hand bank of the river until you reach the loch, then cut straight across the side of the hill – it will bring you out just the same.’

Murdo eased his legs and picked at his damp trousers. ‘Well, I’ll be off.’

‘Now remember,’ the old man said. ‘It’s Johnny Murray you want to see. He won’t be far away from home on a Sunday. Tell him that Duncan Beg sent you.’

Murdo nodded.

‘Look after yourself, then.’ He clapped a wrinkled hand on
Murdo’s shoulder and stood back.

‘I’ll do that,’ Murdo said. ‘Thank you for the breakfast and everything.’

The old man smiled at the boy’s embarrassed politeness and waved him on.

‘Good luck,’ he said.

Murdo turned and made his way across the sheep-stained snow to the level track. Two hundred yards downstream it wound round a spur of the hill and passed out of sight of the cottage. He turned at the bend and saw the shepherd still at the corner of the barn, watching him go. He waved and the old man waved back. A moment later the rocky hillside had risen between them.

Walking was hard work, for even on the level track the snow was deep, and time and again long wreaths swept down from the hillside so that Murdo found himself ploughing thigh-deep through the drifts. Before he had gone half a mile the wound in his leg began to throb painfully, but as his muscles loosened it eased off to a dull ache. The bandage fell slack and slipped down his leg, coming to rest in a tangle above his sock.

The cold air chased away the dizziness, and the food in his stomach began its good work. But still he felt much weaker than he had expected. His legs lacked their customary strength and did not respond to the uneven ground; his arms and shoulders swung too lightly as he tramped along.

The clouds were piling up. Darkness upon darkness they marched above the moors until the whole eastern sky seemed ready to fall. The summits of the mountains were shrouded and the distance grew dim as evening.

But the storm held off, and in less than two hours Murdo saw the loch lying ahead in a little hollow. It was about a mile away and completely covered with ice. He looked beyond it, across the slope of the hill, for a sign of Braemore.

Suddenly he stopped. On the near side of the loch, threequarters of a mile away yet, three men were moving up the track towards him. His stomach sank. Duncan Beg had said nothing about meeting anyone. The Germans must have done what he thought, driven round by road to come up from Berriedale and Braemore. He gnawed his lip. On the other hand they could be shepherds, searching for strays before the storm broke. They might be the very help he was seeking. But how could he know? For long moments he stood, torn by indecision, then realised that he could not take the chance. Even if they were shepherds, he did not need their help, he could reach Braemore by himself. He must avoid them – but how? He could not hide, he could not return to Corriebreck. And whatever he did, they would see his tracks. The only answer was to cross the river. If they were shepherds they would not follow him. If they were the Germans, at least he would have a good lead.

He plunged off the track and as fast as possible made his way across the glen towards the river. Black and dangerous it swept along beneath shells of ice. A quarter of a mile above him the channel twisted beneath a steep bluff. If he could reach it before they saw him – but the thought was no sooner in his mind than a long shout reached his ears, and then another. He looked back. The tiny figures appeared to be running. Moving as quickly as he could across the rough ground, Murdo reached the bluff and was hidden from their sight.

Ahead of him, just two hundred yards further on, a suspension bridge, similar to the one at Corriebreck, trailed its flimsy catwalk of planks above the river. As he hurried towards it he was struck with an idea and patted his trouser pocket to make sure of the clasp knife. If the ropes were of manilla and not wire, he could at least prevent them from following that way. He reached the posts and examined the cables. They were of heavy tarred rope. Hanging on to the slack hand lines, he wobbled across the old barrel-stave planks, swinging above the icy water. In half a minute he was on the opposite bank. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his father’s knife and flipped up the blade. The rope was hard, but the well-honed blade, though rusty from its recent soakings, had kept a good edge. A few moments of heavy sawing was enough to sever the four stout ropes and send the whole structure flopping into the river with a great splash, sprawling across the white banks and broken ice. The dark current caught at the planking and tugged the free end into the water, sweeping it away downstream. Suddenly appalled at what he had done, Murdo stared at the two stark, snow-plastered posts, and hoped ironically that the men he had seen were not simply shepherds. If they were the Germans, however, it should hold them up for a while. No-one would choose to cross that stretch of river without a bridge.

He turned to face the slope above him. Up and up it reached, heavy with drifts, and overhead the inky clouds pulled themselves together for the onslaught that could only be a few minutes away. Low black tatters writhed and swirled beneath. Their message was unmistakable: ‘Keep off the mountain,’ they said. ‘Don’t be foolhardy.’

Murdo looked down the river. Still hidden beyond the bluff, the men could not appear for several minutes yet. But again their shouts rang up the gusty stillness of the afternoon. What if they
were
only a group of shepherds, warning him of the blizzard about to descend? He must assume they were not, and turned his attention to the side of the glen. East and west the rough slope, devoid of trees and shelter, rose steeply into the edge of cloud. There was only one solution, he must climb. The snow would soon hide him from their eyes, there was plenty of shelter high up on the mountain.

Staring up with considerable fear at the heavy slopes and black sky above him, he tugged the khaki jacket over the waist- band of his trousers, and began to climb.

Later, Murdo could remember little of that nightmare ascent. It could not have lasted more than three or four hours, for he reached the further glen shortly after it grew dark, but in that time as many years grew on his young shoulders.

The river fell away below. His lungs were bursting, his heart surged into his throat it thudded so violently. Waves of dizziness swept over him, making the hillside reel. Drift followed drift, fall followed fall: the breath rasped in and out of his throat, numbingly cold. Slowly the rolling moorland beneath him flattened. Tiny figures clustered at the bridge posts, minute in the landscape, pointing, gesticulating, uncertain what to do. A few soft flakes of snow fell through the air. The whirling, spinning tails of cloud, the ragged ends of that black, all-engulfing darkness, drew close.