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  I checked in to a guesthouse on the main street, which was run by an elderly couple. The husband was an Englishman, his wife a black African. Anticipating some searching questions from him, I gave a false name and explained that I was there on behalf of my colonel. I had been authorised to take lodgings rather than stay in the camp overlooking the town. I wasn’t sure he believed me, but fortunately he couldn’t be bothered to question me. He told me that he and his wife were the only mixed-race couple in the town and the locals didn’t talk to them.

  The next day I trudged back to the camp with a sack of coal over my shoulders. I fully expected to incur Linde’s wrath for showing up without a plan to take her and Anja away, but Mrs Fawcett had said that not being able to boil water to get rid of germs was the primary cause of death in the camps, and of course they needed fuel to cook the vegetables and meat. I decided to risk Linde’s anger if it meant keeping her alive.

  At the gate I was quizzed about my business by a couple of sergeants. I gave a vague description of how I’d brought in a Boer family from their farm a few days ago and was just delivering some coal for them to cook with. Grudgingly, they let me pass.

  Inside, however, a reception party was waiting for me: the adjutant and Sergeant Mackenzie. I was told brusquely to put down the coal, get on the spare horse they’d brought, and immediately return to camp with them, where I’d be in for a dressing-down by the commanding officer. My plea to allow me to deliver the coal fell on deaf ears. As we rode along, Sergeant Mackenzie told me that a telegram had been sent from further down the railway line informing them that I’d absconded and giving details of exactly where they would find me. He told me I would very likely be court-martialled.

  I grew increasingly distraught at the realisation that all my efforts to help Linde had failed; in fact I’d caused her more problems. I suspected she’d never get the coal. I’d been a fool. My plan to get horses and for us to make a run for it was ridiculous. My bid for freedom had lasted forty-eight hours, and I was now in a great deal of trouble. Yet all I could think of was how I could let Linde know what had happened and reassure her I’d be back to rescue them.

  I stood to attention in front of Colonel Murray. He delivered a furious and deserved reprimand, but he also acknowledged my hitherto unblemished record and noted that he knew Captain MacDonald would wish him to recognise this.

  Before he sentenced me, he asked if I had any extenuating circumstances. I requested a private hearing, and the adjutant and sergeant were dismissed. I poured out my heart to the colonel, describing in detail how Linde had deliberately knocked old Mr Vanloos’ rifle out of the way, thus saving my life, and how I felt responsible for this vulnerable woman and young child who had come to depend on me. I was convinced that their only hope for survival in the camp was with my help, and I couldn’t walk away and let them die. I spoke from the heart and I could see his attitude soften.

  ‘What exactly did you think you could do to help?’ he enquired.

  ‘Being able to boil water is crucial to keeping these people alive, yet they have no fuel, no coal. The water is polluted. My mind was full of crazy plans, but nothing seemed to work out . . . I’ve made a right mess of things, I know it. I really have.’

  ‘It certainly looks that way,’ the colonel agreed.

  ‘To be honest, sir, I’ve come to realise that I’ve only been making things worse for the woman; the others in the camp attack her because of me.’ I paused, sensing an opportunity. ‘Might you be able to help, sir? Get them released? Perhaps you could save their lives.’

  ‘I cannot, I’m afraid, Gillies,’ he replied gently. ‘One cannot order the release of individual detainees because of personal pleas. That’s the end of it.’

  ‘Please?’ I pleaded. ‘Is there nothing that can be done?’

  It was some time before the colonel spoke again. ‘Gillies,’ he said at last, ‘I find your intentions honourable, but as you are well aware you have shown a blatant disregard for military discipline. There will be a further hearing, and I should warn you that a court-martial is likely.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ I said, head bowed.

  ‘In the meantime, you will be demoted to Private with immediate effect and placed under the orders of Sergeant Mackenzie.’ I turned to leave, but he wasn’t done. ‘Gillies, you should know that I will not attempt to defend the concentration camps; they are abhorrent. I will personally ensure that the quartermaster arranges for coal to be delivered to the camp for cooking and ensure that everyone receives a fair share. That is something that is within my powers. Dismissed.’

  Chapter 31

  Donald John, South Africa, 1901

  The recently arrived Scouts, some of which were close friends of mine, gave me a good-natured welcome back at the camp. They’d heard I was getting hauled over the coals, although they didn’t know the details. There were some Lochaber men amongst them and I was conscious that word of my activities out here might get back home. I tried to make light of the whole situation.

  Sergeant Mackenzie came by as we turned in. ‘I’ll be watching you, Gillies. Just you stay where you are,’ he said with a wink.

  Despite my cheerful facade, I was in utter despair. I tossed and turned, still wondering whether I could steal some horses at first light and gallop down to the camp and spirit Linde and Anja away. It wasn’t until the small hours that I drifted off into an uneasy sleep.

  The new recruits were clean-shaven, in smart new uniforms. First Contingent took a lot of ribbing for looking like the Boer Commando, what with our long beards, ammunition belts draped over our shoulders and hats like those the Boer wore. Lord Lovat was back out again, although this time commanding the Second. I was assigned to be with Captain Edward Murray, a Cameron officer who had just arrived and bore no relation to our commanding officer, who was also staying out in South Africa.

  We soon discovered that the Second Contingent had undertaken very little preparation. Many had undergone only an intensive week’s training at Macrae and Dick’s riding school in Inverness. Six shepherds had brought their collies out to help round up the sheep when clearing farms, but unfortunately the dogs always ran away when we were under fire.

  The following night was bitterly cold. As I sat by the fire, I thought how wrong it was that we were chucking lumps of coal on it when only a few miles away that same coal would have saved lives.

  Suddenly we heard a horse galloping into camp at full tilt. We leapt to our feet, instantly alert. It was a Connaught Ranger, demanding to know where the CO was. We were soon informed that the Connaughts were under attack and in dire straits a thirty-mile ride away. A long night in the saddle proved to be an agonising experience for many of the new recruits, who were just off the ships and hadn’t ridden at all since they’d left Inverness weeks ago.

  By the time we reached the location, the Boer outposts had seen us coming and vanished. We arrived to find six dead Connaughts and many wounded. The surviving men were all parched, having long since run out of water, and they had almost no ammunition left. For two days they’d been taking cover behind boulders on the kopje, with no escape from the sun. If we Scouts hadn’t come to the rescue there would have been massive Connaught casualties.

  Over the last few months of the war the Scouts and the Irish often camped and fought alongside each other, and many firm friendships were formed. As I helped to patch up the wounded before the doctor and hospital wagons arrived, I recognised one of the injured, Danny O’Driscoll from Tipperaray. Danny had taken a bullet in his stomach and was in agony. One of the new officers had brought his own supply of morphine and a syringe from Britain, and he allowed one of our lieutenants to give Danny a shot. Danny wanted to dictate a letter to his wife, so Colonel Murray’s batman gave me a pencil and paper. I wrote as he spoke his heartfelt words of love, promised to post it, then gave him his last rites as the doctor appeared. There was nothing he would have been able to do anyway. I was holding Danny’s hand as he breathed his last.

  Ther
e were six hundred men clustered on that small hill. We worked hard, digging graves and transporting the many injured to the wagons. The Connaught Rangers’ priest stood on a knoll and said the funeral Mass. We all knelt before him, hats and rifles by our sides. I wished I’d had my pipes with me as the bodies were laid in their shallow rocky graves. I would have played ‘Flowers Of The Forest’, the most moving of all laments. There was no wood for crosses, just waist-high cairns constructed by the soldiers to mark each man’s resting place.

  Our journey back was slow and laborious. The Indian medical service had supplied the stretcher bearers and medical staff, and wagons painted with red crosses. Their oxen travelled at a rate of a mile an hour, and every channel in the veld was a major obstruction that needed to be negotiated. Food and water were in very short supply, and the horses were still recovering from the fast ride out. I frequently dismounted and led my horse to give her a rest and to stretch my legs. Some of the new men were very hard on their mounts and wondered why they couldn’t keep going. The Second Contingent had had a hard introduction to the war.

  By the time we got back in we had been away almost a week. I had spent a lot of time praying that things might be better for Linde and Anja, and I was relieved to hear that Mrs Fawcett had appointed a matron and the military had agreed to help the civilian staff to improve conditions. I was convinced that Linde would be thinking I’d taken her at her word and just washed my hands of the two of them.

  I was confined to camp, but I had to see her. I rose before dawn and slipped away on foot, running as fast as I was able. I reckoned I could make it to the camp and back before anyone noticed I’d gone. When I arrived, there was a stranger at the gate and he let me in without question. With mounting trepidation, I walked down the row of tents to the far end.

  When I arrived at the tent I pulled back the canvas flap and peered in. Several women looked up at me. I saw Linde’s cape on the mattress in the corner, the tin of chocolates, empty, beside it.

  ‘Where is Linde?’ I asked.

  An old woman stared blankly in my direction. ‘She died, this morning.’

  I felt as if I might collapse as her words sank in. Dead . . . this morning.

  ‘And Anja,’ I asked hoarsely, ‘her daughter?’

  ‘At the infirmary.’

  Anja was lying curled up on a mattress, only a mass of dishevelled blonde hair visible above the thin sheet. I knelt beside her and took her hand. She wasn’t moving, but I could detect a faint pulse. I turned her over as gently as I could. Her beautiful face was a ghastly shade of grey, masked with a sheen of sweat. She opened her eyes, focused and then held out her hands, murmuring my name.

  I held her in my arms for a long time, feeding her mealies on a teaspoon, stroking her hair, talking nonsense, caressing her cheek – all the time willing her to live. My mind darted between uncontrollable grief and wondering what had happened.

  It grew dark. There was no one else around and just a dim lamp in the corner. Mrs Fawcett arrived with the camp matron and spotted me. She knelt down and took Anja’s pulse. ‘I think she’ll live now,’ she said.

  ‘What happened to them? I asked.

  ‘There was a commotion down by the river,’ the matron replied. ‘We heard screams, so I ran down with two of the nurses, but we were too late. Linde had already drowned, and Anja must have run in to help her. She was caught in the current and swept downstream. We found her some distance away, unconscious on the riverbank. We had to pump water out of her chest.’

  ‘Linde drowned?’ I said, perplexed. ‘But how on earth . . .’

  ‘The women at the river slipped away as soon as we arrived. They said they saw the woman and her daughter drowning and had gone to save them.’

  ‘Was it her family?’ I demanded, suddenly enraged.

  The matron shrugged her shoulders. ‘Perhaps,’ she replied. ‘Whatever happened or did not happen, we will never be able to prove anything. Not in here.’

  My knees buckled as the reality hit me. Linde was gone, and I knew I had played a role in her death.

  ‘What will happen to Anja now?’ I asked weakly.

  ‘In the normal course of events, the child would be adopted by her next of kin, which in Anja’s case is her aunt. She’s here in the camp.’

  The matron could see the look of horror on my face.

  ‘But she was one of the people who just tried to drown her mother,’ I spluttered. ‘You know it’s true.’

  ‘I don’t know any such thing,’ she said sternly.

  ‘Oh yes, you do,’ I retorted. ‘You were aware of the bad feeling between them, weren’t you?’

  Mrs Fawcett spoke up. ‘Please, don’t worry. We’ll look after her. There is a young couple in the town who have recently lost their only daughter, and I’m certain they would take her in and be good parents for her. I had intended to visit them this evening.

  ‘I’m sorry this has been such a shock for you. Why don’t you write the girl a letter? I’ll make sure she gets it in due course. It will matter to her as she grows up.’

  I took the paper and pen she offered and sat down to write. I proceeded to pour out my affection for them both, describing how much I had loved her mother despite only knowing her so briefly, and said I would pray for them every day for the rest of my life. I addressed it ‘to my darling Anja’ and sealed the envelope.

  Mrs Fawcett took it and assured me that she would look after Anja. I went over to the child one more time. She was sleeping, breathing evenly; her fever had passed. I kissed her hand and then slipped away. I was relieved to know that Mrs Fawcett was taking responsibility for the girl’s wellbeing. I knew I could trust her to do the best for Anja.

  I thanked the two women and headed back to the camp, knowing there would be hell to pay. Nervously, I reported straight to Colonel Murray’s tent and asked his orderly if I could have a word. I was prepared for the worst, having deserted not once but twice. It wasn’t the glorious end to my army career that I had envisaged.

  Sitting at Colonel Murray’s desk, I related the events of the last few hours, and his stony face began to soften. When I had finished, he smiled. ‘You’re a very fortunate man, Gillies. With so much going on here, I don’t have time to worry about such personal affairs. And, sadly, it’s clear you won’t need to go back to the refugee camp any more.’

  My eyes welled up.

  He got out of his chair, put a hand on my shoulder, looked me in the eye and said, not unkindly, ‘Now, let’s get back to soldiering, shall we?’

  Chapter 32

  Donald John, Ardnish, 1944

  It is well past midnight, and I’ve been drifting in and out of consciousness, sometimes talking to the Archbishop, sometimes just dreaming. Our conversation roams back in time to how our families met.

  ‘Your great-grandfather and mine would have been shepherds and drovers for the legendary Corriechoillie,’ I tell him, guiltily delaying the confession of my greatest secret.

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ he replies, ‘and later my grandfather, Long John, got his licence to become a legal distiller and began to build his whisky company.’

  ‘You must be about ten years younger than me. Would that be right?’

  ‘I’ll be seventy-four next month. But I feel well on it.’

  We pause for a moment, both deep in thoughts of the past. I am a very old man, that is certain. I can’t think of anyone who has lived longer than I have in these parts. The Archbishop’s father, D. P. MacDonald, died young. He was a great businessman, building Long John into the biggest whisky company in Scotland. Then Colonel Willie and his brother Jack, still only in their twenties, were landed with running a major company without the knowledge or any real interest in doing so. And now, finally, the Archbishop’s nephew, Major Andrew, had passed over control of the company. It has been difficult for the family. Too many distilleries, Prohibition in America after the last war and hefty taxes had taken their toll, and now it’s forbidden to sell whisky in Great Britain as
the grain is needed for food.

  I shiver. I’m feeling the cold.

  The Archbishop rises. He stretches, and then clears the plates, pokes the fire and puts on more peat.

  ‘I have to confess now, Father,’ I say.

  ‘Then we’ll be needing a cup of tea. I fancy, by the look of you, that there’s still a twist or two to come,’ he says. He smiles at me and walks stiffly across to the sink, not too nimble himself these days.

  I close my eyes, gathering what strength I have left, and the Archbishop talks while the kettle boils. ‘When I used to come here with my older brother Willie, we were all fit and strong,’ he says. ‘I remember the big stone, must have weighed about half a hundredweight, sitting below that oak tree at the back of the big field by the track over to Polnish. The challenge was to heft it over a branch about seven feet off the ground. No visiting young man ever passed the spot without giving it a try, did they? Willie and I never managed it, although your lad Angus did it with ease, first with his left and then with his right hand! He was the strongest man in Lochaber in his day. And I remember Mairi once proudly telling me that her Sandy and young Donald Peter heaved it over before they went off to Gallipoli.’

  I feel a surge of pride, thinking of those fine young men. But both dead now.

  The storm lamp is guttering a bit. The Archbishop puts a cup of tea down on the kist beside my bed. ‘Where’s the paraffin kept?’ he asks. ‘I’d better fill the light.’