Beloved Highlander

Meg rose with a noisy rustle of silk, obviously startled by his haste. “Oh. Yes. Of course.”

He strode to the door, opened it, and waited for her.

Glancing at him nervously, she passed through into the Great Hall, hurrying to the staircase. “Follow me, Captain Grant. We will go together. I, too, would very much like to hear what my father has to say to you.”

He hardly heard her. He was in the past again, sinking back in time with each step he climbed. The general. There were memories in those two words, painful memories he had held prisoner for many years, just as the young Gregor had been a prisoner. But now those memories had broken free….

“And how is young Gregor Grant today?”

Gregor lifted his head. The other men in the cell shifted to make way for the general, most of them good-naturedly, one or two grumbling. The general was a regular visitor to the gaol, taking an interest in the prisoners, speaking with them, offering to get news home to their loved ones. He did a fair job of it, in Gregor’s opinion, even if some of the others said he was not worth spitting upon, because he had fought on the side of the English king in the 1715 Rebellion.

No, Gregor decided, the general was a just and fair man, which was more than the Jacobites had expected to find when they were led here in chains after the Battle of Preston. The general may have fought against them, but it was their ideals he disliked, their politics he disagreed with, not the men themselves.

The general seemed to have a particular fondness for Gregor. It stemmed from the fact that Gregor’s father, who had come to the prison with his son, had died here. Apoplexy. He had died in Gregor’s arms, unable to speak, staring wildly, hardly aware of those around him. Gregor had been distraught; the general had stepped neatly into the shoes of surrogate father.

“Will you have a game of chess with me this evening, young Gregor?” The general stood on his heels, rocking back and forth in the small space allowed him by the men who sat and crouched and knelt. He was beaming down into Gregor’s wan and dirty face, as if there were nothing odd in such a scene.

Gregor knew he had lice, but everyone else had them too. The conditions in the prison were worse than anything he had seen in a Highland hovel. Indeed, most Highland hovels were palaces compared to this. The General had commented adversely on the state of the place, he had complained to the governor, he had even written to parliament. No one cared. They were Jacobites after all, rebels, and in the eyes of most of the population, they deserved what they got.

Gregor had grown used to living within sight and hearing of twenty other men, but he enjoyed the general’s visits. His only other escape was within his own mind. He could take himself off to Glen Dhui whenever he wanted to. His memories of his home were so clear that he could recall every curve in the hills, every patch of heather, every stone.

He took himself off to Glen Dhui often.

“Thank you, sir, I would like to play chess this evening,” he said now, politely, but without any real warmth. He did not like to be singled out like this, but neither would he give up his chess evenings with the general because some of the others didn’t like it.

“Remember what he and his like stand for! A friend of German George who calls himself our king, that’s what he is, Gregor. Spit in his eye, laddie!”

“Aye, he’s German Georgie’s man.”

“Mabbe he likes ’em young, huh? Has he ever tried to kiss you, laddie?”

They all said things like that, although MacIlvrey was probably the worst. MacIlvrey was bitter, turned half mad by what had happened to his wife and child when they were left behind, after the beaten Jacobite army fled into the north.

Their words made Gregor feel angry and sick, but he would not be drawn into a fight. He pretended to listen to their arguments and the coarse jokes, and after a time they let him be, allowed him to go off without further trouble. Sometimes he pretended to grumble, as if he didn’t reallywant to go and play chess, but it was just a ruse. The evenings away from this crowded, smelly cell were like paradise, the peace and warmth of the room the general used as his chamber on such occasions were almost as good as dreaming of Glen Dhui.

Sometimes the general would pour him a glass of Rhenish, and expound on the state of Scotland. Sometimes he would try and persuade Gregor to his point of view, never realizing that his protégé had made up his own mind, long before he was taken prisoner, that the Stuart cause was not for him.

But loyalty to his fath

er and the other prisoners kept him silent.

“Good, good!” The general beamed now at his acceptance, his genial smile making the creases in his face sink deeper. He had the bluest, most direct gaze Gregor had ever encountered. It seemed to see straight into his soul, and yet it was not invasive. It was comforting.

The general was looking down at him. They didn’t see it coming. Suddenly MacIlvrey rose up behind him like a man-mountain, all six foot five of him, and put his hands around the general’s throat.

“I’ll kill ye, ye Sassenach bastard!” he shouted, and began to squeeze.

The guards were at ease outside the door. There had never been trouble before, everyone seemed to accept the general. The men in the cell were either too startled to do much, or ambivalent about the whole thing. Gregor saw what was about to happen, and only Gregor acted.

He came around the general like a whirlwind, fists flying, feet kicking. Through sheer luck he landed a blow to the unhealed wound on MacIlvrey’s leg, and the man gave a keening sound and let the general go. The general fell, gasping, choking into Gregor’s arms, his face the color of a pomegranate, just as the guards came running.

For a time there was confusion. Gregor was thought to be the attacker, and he was taken to another cell, jostled and struck, his eye blackened and his lip bloodied. It was only some time later that the General, able at last to speak, had explained how Gregor had saved his life, not threatened it, and came himself to see the boy released from his confinement.

“I thank you,” he had said, taking Gregor’s hands in his, with eyes a mixture of pity for the boy’s state and anger that it was so. “I’ll not forget this, Gregor lad.”

Gregor ducked his head, and felt the tears in his eyes. He would not cry. He had not cried since his father died in his arms.

But the general seemed to understand. “Don’t worry, lad,” he said quietly, “I’ll get you out of here.”