Summer of Love (9 page)

    
So, early next morning Andrew found himself riding beside the hated
lieutenant. Before they entered the copse of oak hiding the glen, the officer
gave instructions for the plan of attack. Rather than staying in the background, trying to shut out the scenes of wanton mayhem, Andrew stayed with
the troop.

    
His stomach tightened into a knot when he spotted the cattle and ponies
still grazing in the fields. But something felt strange. No dogs announced
their arrival, nor were there any people around. Had they managed to get
away? Why was smoke rising from Dougal MacGregor’s cottage? He
couldn’t stand the uncertainty any longer. He needed to know and raced
toward the cottage, immediately flanked by the four dragoons who must have
thought he was executing the officer’s orders. Jumping off the horse on the
run, he rushed inside. Chairs were overturned, the cupboards wide open,
most personal belongings gone, other things strewn on the clay floor—the
telltale signs of a hurried departure. He could breathe again.

    
At his feet lay Helen’s little russet jacket. He picked it up, feeling its soft
texture. Thank God, she got away in time. He put it carefully on a chair. On
the spur of the moment he picked it up again and stuffed inside his coat.
Suddenly, he heard a wheezing rasp from behind the partition. He froze for
a moment and then went carefully around it. Facing him was Mary MacGregor, standing protectively in front of the bed. On it lay grandmother MacGregor, breathing with great difficulty, both hands pressed to her chest. She
looked like a corpse.

    
A rueful cry escaped him: "Holy mother, why didn’t you leave?"

    
Mary did not answer, just looked at him reproachfully. He wanted to sink
into the ground. The noise of soldiers barging into the cottage shook him out
of his anguished paralysis. He rushed outside. He needed to ask the officer
to spare the cottage.

    
"Lieutenant Gordon, there’s a seriously ill woman in that cottage. She
might die if she’s forced out." He didn’t really know whether this was true,
but he would have said anything to protect her.

    
If he had expected any mercy or compassion from the lieutenant, he was
seriously mistaken. "It will hardly matter if the old bitch kicks the bucket
now or later," the officer sneered, deliberately turned away from Andrew,
and shouted: "Sergeant Miller, take a detachment and secure the cattle!"

    
"Aye, sir!"

    
By then, a soldier was pushing Mary from the cottage. She struggled to get
back in. He threw her roughly to the ground. Two others dragged out the old
woman by her feet and dumped her on the hard ground, making rude
comments about her exposed thighs, grey, blotched skin hanging loosely
from thin bones. Mary got up and ran to her mother-in-law, covering her up
and cradling her head in her lap.

    
"Lieutenant Gordon, I’ll report this to Lord Glenorchy," Andrew shouted
enraged.

    
"Shut up and get back to your station or I’ll have you in chains!"

    
Ignoring him, Andrew went over to Mary. The old woman looked lifeless.
"Can I bring her water, Mrs. MacGregor," he murmured in Gaelic.

    
"She’s dead."

    
"Oh, I’m sorry. I tried to prevent it," he stuttered.

    
"Go! You are no better than them." She did not even look up, but
continued stroking the hair of the old woman.

    
She could hardly have said anything more devastating. He just wanted to
run, run and never stop. This was the end. He had lost all rights to even think
of Helen. His head lowered, he led his horse to the edge of the wood. Staring
blankly into the trees, his mind repeated her words over and over.

    
By midmorning, a group of soldiers drove the cattle from the glen. The
goats were missing. So they got them away in time, mused Andrew bitterly.
Maybe they hid them already earlier. Shortly afterward, the rest of the troop
marched out with their loot, leaving a miserable burnt-out clachan behind.
Before entering the trees, Andrew turned around. Mary had not moved. She
was still cradling the old woman on her lap.

4

Middle of June, rumors abounded that Donald MacLaren, who had held a
captain’s commission with the Appin Stewarts and had fought at Culloden,
had been sighted in the area, together with a small group of his followers.
Andrew was again summoned to serve as guide to Lieutenant Gordon,
heading his infantrymen in a thorough search of Glen Ogle, the pass between
Glen Dochart and Lochearnhead. They reached that town without finding
any signs of the fugitives. While the soldiers returned to Killin along the
road, Lieutenant Gordon ordered Andrew to guide him and his group of four
dragoons over the crest of the mountain range. "They might as well check
out the tops for any traces of MacLaren," he argued.

    
Andrew didn’t like the idea. If they strayed too much to the east, it would
lead them right into the shielings of the MacGregors, where he expected
them to hide. Not only was this fraught with danger—Dougal and his group
still had their arms—but Andrew was loath to meet up with them. He was
sure Lieutenant Gordon would want to arrest the men, and he didn’t dare to
think what that brute might do to the women and children. So, he selected a
path that deliberately stayed along to top of the steep ridge above Glen Ogle.
But when the small schist outcrop that marks the flat top of Beinn Leabhain
came into view, the lieutenant steered them to the right over the gently
undulating high plateau to the upper glen of the Achmore Burn, which
opened up the view to the distant light blue waters of Loch Tay. Andrew
realized that this would bring them closer to the MacGregor shielings. Barely
over the saddle into the glen they surprised a group of women digging roots
near the creak about a half a mile further down. The women spotted them
too. After a moment’s hesitation, they dropped whatever they were doing,
raised their skirts and started running toward the ridge several hundred feet
to the east. Gordon and his dragoons immediately gave chase and had the
group surrounded before they managed to reach the ridge that dropped down
to the forested ravine below. Andrew followed more slowly. As he got
closer, he recognized Mary MacGregor, Helen, her younger sister Betty, and
two other women in their early thirties, one with a young boy of six or seven.
Betty was crying hysterically. The women were breathing hard and eyeing
the dragoons apprehensively.

    
His heart pounding high in his throat, Andrew held back. He couldn’t tell
if they had recognized him. He was in turmoil. Part of him simply wanted to
gallop away so that he wouldn’t have to face Helen. Part wanted to charge
Lieutenant Gordon and kill him. But he also knew that this would be foolish.
They were five well-trained soldiers. It would be suicide and wouldn’t help
the women.

    
Lieutenant Gordon seemed to have guessed who they were. "So, you’re
the MacGregors from Loch Tay who got away the other day before we
arrived. Aren’t you the one with the old hag?" he addressed Mary directly.
"And where are your men?"

    
Mary’s expression did not hide her contempt for the Englishman, nor did
she deign him with an answer.

    
"Woman, I’m talking to you. Where are your men?" shouted Gordon,
anger reddening his face for being ignored so contemptuously in front of his
men.

    
She responded with a sneer: "I don’t know. But even if I did, I would
hardly tell you!"

    
"We can easily make you talk, woman. Don’t expect me to show you
mercy again as I did the other day."

    
"It doesn’t take much courage to attack defenseless women and children,
but then we wouldn’t really expect more from the English," came her
derisive answer.

    
Fuming, Gordon dismounted and approached her threateningly. She
stayed proudly put, her eyes fierce. He grabbed her plaid and ripped it off.
The brooch holding it in place tore the front of her petticoat, revealing her
bosom. He laughed and reached for a breast. She spat in his face.

    
"I’ll teach you, you bitch," he shouted, landing a punch under her rib cage.
Winded, she pressed her fists into her stomach, fighting her urge to buckle
forward. He started tearing her petticoat. For a moment she was stunned and
then fought back. But he was a big, strong man and threw her easily to the
ground. She got up, naked, facing him defiantly. He threw her down again.
She tried to stumble back on her feet. Grabbing her with his left arm around
the waist from behind, he forced her to her knees. He twisted her right arm
up her back, pushing her upper body forward. She stifled a scream of pain,
biting her lips. He went down on his knees and opened his breeches. With a
rough push he entered her from behind. She gasped and closed her eyes.

    
This was the signal for the four dragoons to fall on the other women and
girls. The two women started to run away again. They were hunted down by
two pursuers. A third went after Helen. She dodged him several times.

    
It all escalated so fast that Andrew’s first reaction was paralysis. No, this
can’t be happening! He needed to retch. Then he saw the fourth dragoon
jumps off his horse near Betty. She had not moved, like frozen to the ground,
still whining hysterically, a hand over her mouth, watching in terror the
lieutenant rape her mother.

    
This shook Andrew into action. He shouted: "Leave her alone, she’s but
a child," adding in Gaelic: "Run, Betty, run!"

    
The dragoon hesitated for a second. But that seemed enough for the girl’s
survival instinct to take over. She ran to the ridge and the safety of the trees
in the ravine, the little boy at her tails. The dragoon grinned, and went to help
a comrade subdue one of other two women who was fighting him off wildly.

    
For a short moment, Andrew gave in to his own urge to run, to gallop
away from this ugly scene. His spurs already pressed into the horse’s side,
when he saw dragoon Kelly, a hideous, big man in his forties, rough up
Helen, who pummeled him with little effect. He just laughed, finding it
funny. Her plaid lay already on the ground and her petticoat had a big tear in
front. Andrew turned his mare and rushed to them. Jumping off the horse on
the run, he made a flying tackle on the dragoon. Kelly had seen him coming
and easily parried the assault with his shoulder. Then he stepped back,
feigning surprise. Holding the struggling Helen at arms length, he exclaimed:
"Aye, aye, master Andrew, you may ravish her first. I’ll hold her down for
you."

    
When Helen saw Andrew, she suddenly stopped struggling, big,
frightened eyes on him. And then came his realization that he couldn’t save
her by fighting Kelly. Even his fighting skills were no match for the big man,
who could easily knock him out with one or two well-aimed punches, and
Helen would remain at his mercy. On the spur of the moment, he changed
tactics.
Agree with his suggestion and get Helen away from him,
cried his
mind.

    
"I can handle her. I don’t need your help," he said, hardly recognizing his
croaking voice.

    
With Helen struggling no longer, Kelly let go, lustily eyeing Helen’s
breasts showing through her torn petticoat. "So get on with it, lad. I’ll take
her after you," he urged.

    
Andrew pulled Helen a few steps behind low shrubs and then pushed her
to the ground. Kelly laughed again and exclaimed: "Bashful, master Andrew,
are you?"

    
Andrew opened the front of his trews and lay on her. Helen’s frightened
eyes met his, mirroring his own terror. He, covering her bosom with the torn
petticoat, and after pulling her skirt up a bit. "Help me, Helen! Pretend! …
For God’s sake, scream," he whispered hoarsely, as began to pump on top of
her the way he had seen one of the dragoons do earlier. Suddenly, a piercing
scream tore through the heath.

    
"When I get off, run to the ravine. Don’t look back. Just run!" There was
a heart-rending urgency in his voice. He didn’t know whether she understood. He rolled to the side and hissed between his teeth: "Now!"

    
She jumped up and, fast as a deer, darted toward across the slope to the
ridge, holding her petticoat above her knees. Kelly yelled for Andrew to hold
her and, swearing wildly, took up the chase. Just as he was about to run past
Andrew, the latter stumbled into his path. Both rolled heavily to the ground.
By the time Kelly scrambled back on his feet, Helen was too close to the
ravine for him to catch her. Once in the bushes and low trees hiding the
ravine, she quickly looked back, and then she was gone. Andrew watched,
lightheaded, the sick feeling of shame and delayed fright deep in his guts.