Free The Last Sunset by Bob Atkinson Page A

been the last thing on their minds,
although none of them could remember the last time they had eaten.
    Macmillan smiled. “That would be very kind of
you Mister… er, Mister Cameron. Ah’m afraid we’ve no way of paying you for
food, but…”
    The old Highlander was instantly offended.
“Paying me… for my hospitality? Och, man, you do not pay for hospitality in the
house of a Highland chentleman.” He looked accusingly at Macsorley. “You are of
the Gaidhealtacht . You above all should know this.”
    The young man flushed and looked accusingly at
his corporal.
    “You should also know it is customary to address
a chentleman according to his place of residence. To friends and foe alike I am
known as Achnacon .” A guarded smile replaced his expression of
disapproval. “I trust Achnacon shares his bread with friends this day…?”
    The soldiers were to learn that Achnacon of Glen
Laragain was by no means a wealthy man. Almost everything he and his family
owned, wore, or consumed was produced by their own hands. They lived well off
their land, however, and according to the Highland code of hospitality the
fruit of their labours was shared with all who entered their door. Their
visitors were treated to a meal of cheese, oatcakes, bannocks, smoked venison
and trout.
    The lady of the house grew more at ease as her
guests accepted the unspoken bonds of her hospitality. Like her daughters she
was dark haired, her features strong and forceful. There was an air of simple
dignity about her that had her young guests falling over themselves to show off
their manners. All, that is, except Rae, who acted like an automaton, dumbly
accepting everything he was offered.
    The demure Ishbel remained in the background,
ignoring every attempt at eye contact. Shona, the younger daughter, quickly
ensconced herself amongst the company. She was ferociously inquisitive and
tormented Macsorley with a barrage of unanswerable questions.
    The master of the house chatted lightly to them
about this and that, gently trying to cast some light on this mystery which had
manifested itself within his tigh dubh . Ultimately Achnacon steered the
conversation around to events taking place beyond Glen Laragain:
    “A queer business this uprising, is it not? Many
of the young men gone from the hills to fight for Prince Tchearlach… others to
fight for King Cheorge…” His gaze flicked over the faces of his guests. “Many
an honest man will lose all ere this business is finished, I am thinking,
whichever royal backside sits on the throne of England…”
    “Aye, that’s right enough,” Macmillan murmured
noncommittally.
    Shona had discovered the zip fastener on
Macsorley’s combat jacket, and was giggling with delight at this wonderful new
toy.
    “Some say Locheil and Keppoch will return to
Lochaber to lay siege once more to the black garrison. Others say they have
gone to Inverness to do battle with the Chuke’s army…”
    Macmillan looked to his troops in a silent
appeal for help. They all sat by the smoky warmth of Achnacon’s hearth,
ensnared in the sweet trap of his debt, yet the N.C.O. had no idea what tack he
should take.
    Macsorley had no such problems: “It’s like you
said earlier, er, Achnacon, none of us here are King George’s men. As far as
Ah’m concerned the Hanoverians are a bunch of murdering animals. Pardon ma
language and all that…”
    The old Highlander nodded warily. “Aye, chust
so, chust so.” He looked at the N.C.O. “And yourself, Corporal Andy? Are you a
Prince’s man, or a Chuke’s man? Or does yourself belong to no man whatever?”
    Macmillan squirmed in his seat of heather and
straw. “Ah don’t know… Ah mean… What tae make of it all…”
    Macsorley cut in, diplomacy thrown to the wind:
“This cannae be an accident, Corp. We’ve all had time to think about it.
Whatever happened to us has happened for a purpose.”
    Achnacon leaned forward in sudden interest.
“And, ah, what might this purpose