Short story
Ticonderoga
Fitzroy Maclean
Even their enemies (and they have many) 1—;/ would admit that by the middle of the 18th century Clan Campbell had achieved a position of total dominance in the Western Highlands. From his capital at Inveraray their Chief, MacChailein Mor, from the first a loyal supporter of the House of Hanover and by now Duke of Argyll and Greenwich, wielded more real power than many a ruling prince. Any potential adver- saries, the Macleans, for example, who a century before had sacked Inveraray and burnt it to the ground, were either dead, in exile or lying very low.
All round Inveraray was Campbell coun-
try. High above the waters of nearby Loch Awe loomed the dark mass of Ben Cruachan and Cruachan! was the Campbell rallying-cry. On an island in Loch Awe stood the original Campbell stronghold of Innischonaill and in the narrow Pass of Brander, where the River Awe flows out of the loch, the Campbells had in 1309 defeated their rivals the MacDougalls in a battle which marked the beginning of their ascent to power. Here, on some higher ground overlooking the river, stood the cas- tle of Campbell of Inverawe, a Campbell chieftain of ancient lineage, who, like his neighbour the Duke, could (and constantly did) trace his ancestry back to Colin of Lochawe, the founder and name-father of the Clan.
On a stormy night in 1748 the laird of the day, Captain Duncan Campbell of In- verawe, a dark, strongly built man of 45, holding a commission in the recently raised Black Watch or Royal Highland Regiment, was sitting alone at his desk in the great hall of his castle trying to bring some order into his papers, which, like most papers in the West Highlands, were badly in need of it. A few peats smouldered on the hearth, the wind howled in the chimney, sending occa- sional smoky gusts billowing out into the room, and outside the rain poured steadily down. Suddenly, just as the figures on which he was concentrating seemed about to balance, there came a furious hammering on the great door of the castle.
These were troublous times. Barely two
years after the Jacobite Rising or, as In- verawe would have called it, Rebellion, of 1745, the Highlands were still full of desperate men, marauding bands, deserters from both armies, fugitives, from justice, smugglers, English spies and Jacobite agents. With due deliberation, Inverawe rose from his desk and, crossing the hall, slid back the bolts and looked out. On the threshold stood a bedraggled-looking stranger, soaked to the skin, his clothing torn and stained with blood, his breath coming in short gasps. 'I have killed a man,' he managed to say, 'my pursuers are hard on my heels. Give me shelter.' For the Highlander, hospitality to the wayfarer in distress is a sacred duty and that this wayfarer was in distress there could be no doubt. Inverawe opened the door. 'Come in,' he said, 'I will give you refuge.' Swear it on your dirk,' said the stranger im- mediately. And Inverawe gave his solemn oath, swearing on his dirk and, as tradition demanded, by Cruachan, the great hill in whose shadow he lived. Then, after pro- viding the stranger with something to eat and drink, he led him through the silent house to a secret hiding-place where he could be safe from prying eyes. Scarcely had he done so than there came a fresh hammering on the castle door. Again Inverawe drew back the bolts and opened the door, this time to find a group of armed men standing outside. 'Donald Campbell, your cousin, has been murdered, Inverawe,' they shouted above the noise of the storm. 'We are searching for the man who killed him. Did anyone come this way?' For Duncan Campbell only one course of action was possible. He had sworn to give the stranger refuge and give him refuge he must. 'I have seen no one,' he said. At which the men ran back as fast as they could down the great avenue of trees which led to the castle. Deeply disturbed, Duncan Campbell closed the door, drew the bolts and again sat down at his desk in the hope that the dreary task of adding up columns of figures which never seemed to come out might help to distract his thoughts from the intolerable dilemma which confronted him. For, while he was relentlessly bound by his oath to give asylum to the stranger now comfortably in- stalled upstairs, the sacred laws of kinship bound him no less remorselessly to ensure that his cousin's murder did not go unavenged. The fact that Donald, a born complainer, was not his favourite cousin, was neither here nor there. Blood, West Highland blood especially, was thicker than water. And spilt blood called out for revenge. He had made little progress with his ac- counts before this ineluctable fact was brought home to him in spine-chilling fashion. The page of figures on which he was seeking to concentrate his thoughts was lit by a single, guttering lamp, leaving the rest of the room in semi-darkness. All at once, as he sat there alone, he became aware of a shadow falling across the page. Uneasily he looked up. Standing at his side was a tall figure, ghastly pale and dripping with fresh blood. With horror he recognis- ed the familiar features of his cousin Donald. 'Inverawe! Inverawe!' declaimed the apparition in a high, piping West Highland voice. 'Blood has been shed. Shield not the murderer!' And suddenly it was no longer there. Although he later made his way up to his oak-panelled bed-chamber and lay down for a time on his great oak bed, Duncan Campbell slept but little that night. Whether he wished to or not, he could not ignore the warning that had come to him from another world. Before first light he sought out his unwanted guest and told him that he could not give shelter to his cousin's murderer. 'You have sworn on your dirk,' replied the other sullenly. And Inverawe felt ill at ease. He could not kill an unarmed man to whom he had sworn to give shelter. Nor could he hand him over to his pursuers. In the end the thought came to him that halfway up Cruachan there was a kind of cave of which he alone knew the position. Taking the stranger with him in the cold, grey half-light, he climbed up to it and, without a word, left him there to fend for himself. Honour, as conceived in the West Highlands, might not be completelY satisfied. But then, he asked himself, how could it ever be? All day the question continued to plague him and the very next night it became all too clear that Donald's ghost had not yet been laid. No sooner had he snuffed out his candle than he woke with a start to find the room illuminated by a sickly light and his cousin Donald, pallid and blood-stained as ever, standing reproachfully by his bed. [o- verawe! Inverawe!' wailed the apparition (and this time the West Highland lilt was stronger than ever). 'Blood has been shed! Shield not the murderer!' And again he vanished. Sleep was out —of the question. HY daybreak Duncan, with no very clear pur- pose, was already on his way to the cave. His dirk hung at his side and he carried a pair of pistols, though what use, if any, he intended to make of them he could not have said. As it turned out, however, the ques- tion did not arise. When he reached the cave, it was empty. The stranger had gone, vanishing once more into the same vague limbo of men on the move, some seeking revenge, others fleeing from it. Making his way back down the hill, Duncan found such comfort as he could in the very hutnart reflection that there was now nothing more he could do, one way or the other. But he had reckoned without Donald. That night he woke to find his cousin again standing over him, still pale and still bleeding, though somehow calmer and less severe, as though perhaps he had looked in- to the future and was satisfied with what he saw there. 'Farewell, Inverawe,' he declared with a kind of sad finality. 'Farewell till we meet at Ticonderoga.' To Duncan the name Ticonderoga, if that is what it was, meant nothing. If seemed likely, it was the name of a place, it was certainly not in Scotland. No one he had consulted had ever heard of it and, as the years went by, time helped dim his memories of what he had endured. When. not required for regimental duties, he led the life of an ordinary West Highland laird, worrying about cattle, worrying aboucit money, worrying about the weather an worrying about people. Only deep in the recesses of his mind was he still conscious nt an exotic name heard years before under scarcely believable circumstances. By 1756 the British were fighting the French in North America and there was Peace of a kind in the Highlands. That sum- mer the Black Watch, originally raised to keep order at home, sailed for New York, With Duncan Campbell, now promoted ma- jor, as their second in command. In June 1758, after spending the best part of two years in training and garrison duties, they were sent north to join Major General Abercrombie in his forthcoming offensive against the French under the Marquis_ de Montcalm. General Abercrombie's im- mediate objective was the capture of Fort Carillon, strongly held by the French and strategically sited on the neck of land bet- ween Lake Champlain and Lake George. After a difficult landing and approach march, the British commander gave orders for the fort to be attacked on 8 July. On the night before the battle the Highland officers had congregated in a disused mill. Sitting there, they talked of one thing and another with the nervous ela- tion of men who do not know whether they Will outlive the following day. After a time their talk turned to the name of the fort they were to attack — Carillon — which came, someone said, from the musical s,ound made by the waters of the lake. When we take it, we will call it Fort George, after His Majesty,' said one officer and another asked if anyone knew what the Indians called it. '1 do,' piped up the Youngest ensign, proud to display his local knowledge. 'They call it Ticonderoga.' Happening to overhear that half- remembered name above the general hum by Conversation, Duncan Campbell, sitting ny himself at some distance from the .,,Others, knew immediately what it signified. 1c;' a West Highlander, it could mean one thing only: that he would not survive the morrow's battle. The 8th of July dawned fine. The attack began at one in the afternoon. It went less well than had been expected. General Aber- crombie, it appeared, had underestimated the strength of the enemy's defences and the effectiveness of their fortifications. The attackers were thrown back with heavy losses. It had been intended that the HIghlanders should be held in reserve, but, as the British casualties grew heavier, they c,‘ould no longer be restrained and, rushing IF°rward, under a deadly fusillade from the ,:ench, swarmed headlong up the earth- determined at all costs to fight their tiway into the fort. And this, with true ighland stubbornness, they continued to puntil long after General Abercrombie, litany realising his mistake, had given the °rder to withdraw. s In this disastrous action the Black Watch nffered appalling losses: eight officers and rrtf., ore than 300 other ranks killed; 17 of- „leers and more than 300 other ranks _wounded. Amongst the less seriously jvclunded was Major Duncan Campbell of :r_verawe, who had fallen, shot through the d m, while leading the assault with Perate disregard for his own safety. avtrig amputated his arm the surgeon
foretold a quick recovery.
But Inverawe knew better. A few days later a fever set in and on 16 July his condi- tion took a sudden turn for the worse. That night, as he was lying in his tent, an officer who was with him saw him suddenly sit bolt upright with staring eyes. 'I have seen him again!' he said and fell back stone dead.
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