Chapter Eleven: Farewell to Scotland

It was late April. Spring leaves cast a green mist through the trees. It was time for George to lead sheep and cattle to the high meadow to feed on tender young grass. But George's father had sold most of their livestock. His parents were irritable—waiting to hear back from Lord Selkirk. Waiting for news of London from Sergeant MacDonald.

George busied himself away from his family. Anywhere but home became his motto. He helped move Angus's father in with his sister Jessie. Together George and Angus hoed Aunt Jessie's garden plot and sowed barley in the rig farmed by the McKay family. 

One afternoon Angus spared time to tutor George in the games of competition. He pointed to a long straight log lying at the edge of their rig. “Since the time of Robert the Bruce, clan chiefs have used such logs to judge our readiness for battle.” Angus shrugged out of his leather jacket. “Push this caber upright and hold it fer me.”  

George looked askance at his brother-in-law. Is Angus trying to make a fool of me? He had been working at the mill part-time—chopping logs with a heavy axe. He knew his upper body was gaining strength—but not enough for this task. Cautiously, George lifted the narrow end of the log.

“Nae, laddie,” said Angus. “See how I've whittled the bottom to make it the right size to grip. This end stands on the ground.” 

George already felt foolish. He had never noticed this detail in any caber at the clan games. He raised the wider end, got under it and pushed the heavy pole upward. Angus corrected the angle. Fascinated, George watched Angus squat and wrap his large hands around the whittled base. 

“Stand aside, lad.” Angus grunted and pulled himself upright with the caber nestled against his shoulder. He ran forward and tossed it. The caber flipped mid air—landed twenty feet straight in front of him. “I'm getting better,” he puffed. “But nae good enough fer competition yet.” He smiled at George. “Wanna have a go?”

God's breath! I feared he'd ask that! I can't possibly toss that caber. George tried to muster a confident smile. “Of course,” he said, pulling off his work jacket. 

Together they raised the log. George wiped his sweating hands on his trews, squatted and clasped the whittled base. “Make sure the caber leans a bit against yer shoulder,” Angus advised. “Else it will tumble forward afore yer ready.”

George expelled his breath in a mighty grunt. Pulled himself up. Staggered forward. Hefted the log, which rose in an arc and landed splat in the dirt. It did not flip in the air. George's cheeks flamed with the shame of failure.

“Mo bhràthair,” exclaimed Angus. “'Twas a mighty fine toss fer a first turn.”

George couldn't contain his grin. Angus just called him brother—and complimented him to boot. “Mo bhràthair,” he asked, “why are ye training fer the games? Aren't ye coming to Lord Selkirk's settlement?”

Angus brushed his dark curly hair back from his eyes. “I wrote His Grace asking to join, but I didna hear anything yet.” He shrugged. “The muscles I'm developing will stand me in good stead in the New World also.” Angus squeezed George's arm. “I'm planning to build up yer strength too.”

Together they walked back along the footpath to Kildonan. At George's cottage they parted and George reluctantly went inside for dinner. His mother had just removed a heavy pot from the pommel hook and was lugging it to the table. 

“That pot's too heavy fer ye, Màmag,” he said, wondering why Da had not carried it for her. On closer inspection, Ma's face was tear-stained. Da stood at the window with his back toward George.

“Son,” his father said gruffly, “Tomorra ye'll take the milk cows into Helmsdale. The innkeeper offered to buy them.”

Ma laid the pot on the floor. One glance at her slumped shouders and George knew what the argument had been about. Ma could not publicly challenge her husband. But he could—he was a man now. “Shouldn't we keep them until the last minute, Dadaith? Don't we use the milk every day?” 

Da swung around, huffing like a bull. “And where would we sell them at the last minute? The innkeeper is buying now. If we dinna take his offer, he'll buy elsewhere.” Da strode up to George's face and hissed, “Dinna contradict me in front of yer mother, ever again.” 

Bile rose in George's throat. “I am not a child now,” he spit through clenched teeth.

Ma stepped up— put a hand on each shoulder. “Settle down, men. Ye both have sound points. But the sale is settled and ye'll take them tomorra, George.”

Da set the pot on the table and Ma scooped out three bowls of stew. George swallowed a bite of the thick broth, swimming with chunks of turnip and potato. Then he announced, “Angus showed me how to toss the caber today.” His parents both laughed—the tense moment was over.

The next morning Ma milked Moira and Millie, then handed their ropes to George. “Dinna go past Jessie's cottage. Jean loved these wee beasties like her own children. I dinna want her to rush outside all upset and fuss over them. Best she should find out later.” 

George led the cows out of the barn. Their trusting eyes gazed at him through long fringes of black wavy hair. On their short stocky legs, Moira and Millie sauntered behind George. As he turned to wave, Ma stood at the door staring at their hindquarters. Two shaggy tails swished contentedly. 

George took the back way through the village. Everyone he met nodded in sympathy. Many other folks were dismantling their farms. Three hours later George led the cows into the stable behind the Helmsdale Inn. He was securing them in a stall, when he heard a rider dismount at the stable door.

“Lad, can you feed and water my horse? We've ridden far.” That voice sounded familiar. George pivoted around⸺stared at the travel-weary, dishevelled man. “Sergeant MacDonald! We've been waiting fer news of ye!”

“George Sutherland. Forgive me. I mistood you for the stable boy.”

“I dinna reckon this inn has a stable boy. I'll be glad to tend to yer mount.”

“Thank you, man.” Sergeant MacDonald slapped him on the shoulder. “I'm going inside to procure a room. When you're done, come and join me for a dram. I have much news for you.”

George settled the sergeant's steed in a stall, found water and hay—no oats available. Probably have to buy a bag inside, he thought. George did find a homespun cloth and a brush. He towelled off the lathered horse and groomed him to a shine. 

He was thrilled the sergeant had invited him for a drink—but nervous to converse in a public inn like a social equal. Finally George removed his bonnet, smoothed down his hair and brushed off his clothes. He squared his shoulders, marched to the front of the building and climbed the steps.

It was unsettling to stand on the porch where KcKid and Sellar had tried to arrest the leaders of the Kildonan resistance. With a deep breath George supressed his unease. As he opened the front door, he rubbed his hand across the unicorn engraved into the heavy oak plank. The fiercly independent unicorn who preferred death to capture—emblem of Scotland since ancient times.

In front of a wide staircase, a balding man perched on a stool behind a counter. He dipped his quill in an inkwell and started writing in a ledger book. His other hand was in his lap.

“I've brought two milk cows from John Sutherland of Kildonan,” George announced. His eyes wandered to the stairs the deputies had climbed with rifles in their hands.

The innkeeper's voice broke into George's reverie. “Ye must be young George Sutherland. Sergeant Macdonald said ye'd be in shortly.  Go sit ye in the public room and I'll bring ye a wee dram, courtesy of the esteemed Sergeant.”

George had never been in a public room. There were ten small tables crammed close together. Being mid-afternoon there were only two other customers. Judging by their handsome capes, they were travelling gentlemen of some sort. George chose a table as far from them as possible. 

Soon the innkeeper brought a small tray. He placed two glasses of whisky and a leather pouch on the table. “'Tis payment for the cows.” George nodded but his attention was distracted by the hand setting down the pouch. That hand was badly scarred and had only two fingers.

The innkeeper nodded grimly. “I was a soldier in Ireland in '98. Took the king's shilling from Seargeant MacDonald himself. Sent me home after a Paddy mangled me hand. I got off luckier than the rest of me company—dead every one.” 

“James Duncan of the Sutherland Fencibles, are ye still fighting those Fenian rogues?” Sergeant MacDonald cuffed the innkeeper on the shoulder—lowered his hefty body onto a chair next to George. He lifted one of the glasses. “To you, my friend, the best soldier I ever dispatched to Ireland.” Guzzling the contents in one gulp, he added, “Who lived to tell the tale.”

As soon as the innkeeper refilled his glass, MacDonald turned to George. “And now a toast to you, young man. The best Highlander I shall ever send off to America.”

George felt his heart soar. “Is it really happening? Has Lord Selkirk arranged a ship fer us?”

“Well, now, you have a nip of that whisky while I get these broadsheets out of my satchel.”   

Tentatively George sipped the whisky. This drink was smooth, easy to swallow—not the burning bite of his da's homebrew. He downed the rest in one gulp, feeling like an experienced soldier.  MacDonald stacked three newspapers on the table. Noticing George's empty glass, he called for a refill.

“'Tis true, young man. Lord Selkirk is negotiating with the Hudson's Bay Company to send a contingent of settlers on their next supply ship. There's much indignation in London at the moment over the way the tenant farmers of Sutherland have been treated.”

MacDonald flipped to an inside page of the first paper. “Here, young man, is the March 16th edition of The Star of London. A letter mocking the Marquis and Marchioness for their heartless evictions in Sutherlandshire.” MacDonald pointed to the letter which occupied almost an entire column. “Written by an anonymous Highlander—actually my cousin Alexander.”     

George pored over the letter. The print was small, so he moved his finger to keep to the correct line. “He calls us brave and loyal people and says 'tis a national calamity that we have been threatened with removal.” 

Macdonald chuckled. “And he concludes with the most biting irony.” He scanned to the end of the letter. “I should be glad to know what had been the fate of Russia, in the momentous struggle she is maintaining to oppose the most pugitious tyrant with which mankind has ever been visited, if instead of a brave and loyal peasantry, she had to oppose him only flocks of sheep.”  

George had no idea what a 'pugitious tyrant' was but he grinned at the sarcasm. 

The sergeant opened the next newspaper. “Without doubt the marquis and marchioness were humiliated because they pressured a friend to write a rebuttal. Then my cousin tore apart the so-called eminent naturalist's flimsy arguments.” He was just opening the third paper when a hand tore it away.

“Are you spreading those wicked lies to the treasonous savages of Kildonan?” Patrick Sellar stood there, his sneering face red with rage. Sellar glared down at Sergeant MacDonald then turned to George. “And you! I've a mind to arrest you right now for complicancy with rebels.”   

George leapt to his feet and pulled his dirk from its sheath. Sergeant MacDonald rose at the same time, placing a hand on George's arm. “Steady, man. I'll handle this.” 

MacDonald unsheathed his own dirk. “You will do no such thing, sir. This young man is a fine specimen of the best troops to ever fight for King George.” He glanced at George. “Time for you to be going. Head home over the uplands. Tell your father I'll be there tomotrrow.” 

George replaced his bonnet and swung his Sutherland plaid over his shoulder. He scowled at Sellar who had stolen his moment of joy and turned it inwards to a place where George felt only rage. 

“Yer an evil man, Mr. Sellar, and Highlanders will remember ye as such.” 

With his head held high, George marched out the door.