The Master of Stair 30
“At the audience I had when I made my report,” said Breadalbane, “it
looked to me that the King kenned little o’ Scotland. He seemed glad
that so many of the clans had come in—and opposed to violence in
dealing wi’ the Hielands; but wi’ his cough and his strange English I
kenned little enow o’ what he said. I wasna’ thinking ower muckle of
him till when I took my leave, I discovered then his wits were where
they should be.”
“What did he say?” asked Argyll, half-anxiously.
Breadalbane wore an amused smile.
“He gave me a straight look, ‘I’m blithe to hae seen you,’ he said
dryly, ‘for the appearance o’ your lordship is a sure sign o’ the
winning cause and as lang as I see you I ken I’m prosperous.’”
“Then he is no’ so bad at character reading,” commented Argyll.
The Viscount and Breadalbane laughed, but the Master of Stair
peremptorily cut them short:
“My lords, let us understand each other plainly. Once the thing is
resolved upon, let it be swift and sudden—better to leave it alone than
bungle it.”
“’Tis the only way,” said Breadalbane. “No enemy will enter Glencoe
save by craft.”
“I did not say craft, my lord,” cried the Master of Stair. “I said let
it be done swiftly and suddenly—I will send a regiment from Fort
William to sweep Glencoe clear of these bandits—another to stop the
passes—you and my Lord Argyll shall hem them in—(yet I hope there will
be no fugitives)—and so the thing is done. The name of Macdonald will
be cleared from Argyllshire and Invernesshire.”
Breadalbane’s pale eyes sparkled.
“Will you trust the commander of Fort William?” he asked.
“No—the second in command, Hamilton—a man anxious to make his way. He
will serve our purpose. The soldiers must be Campbells—you will have a
man, my lord, fitted to lead them.”
“Glenlyon,” said Breadalbane.
“You will know best. There must be no prisoners.”
“But the women and children, Sir John?” asked Argyll. “Ye can transport
them to the colonies?”
“No,” said the Master of Stair, “no. It shall be fire and sword through
Glencoe. I will not have one left alive. I am glad it is winter; now is
the time to maul the wretches. Those who fly into the hills will this
weather perish.”
Then fell a little silence, broken by Argyll.
“The world will call this a massacre, Sir John.”
“Maybe, my lord,” answered the Master of Stair.
“Do ye repent, cousin?” flashed Breadalbane.
“No,” answered Argyll uneasily. “These Macdonalds have been a
plague-spot in our ands for lang enow—but—”
“We have done with ‘buts’!” cried Sir John. “I am resolved these
thieves shall go and they go. The government is strong enough to bear
the blame—and you shall have the King’s warrant, my Lord Argyll.”
He rose and touched the bell.
“I will show you the plan I have made of Glencoe,” he continued,
“whereby—securing the pass of Rannoch—we cut off every retreat.”
He came back to his seat, frowning.
“But I am sorry Keppoch and Glengarry are safe,” he added.
“Weel, they’re no’ so bad as the Macdonalds,” returned Breadalbane.
“Pardon me, my lord; you mean they do not cumber your estates, or
thieve your cattle—” answered the Master. “But they prey on Scotland as
much as do the Macdonalds.”
The secretary entered:
“Bring me those maps of the Highlands,” said Sir John.
Argyll drummed his fingers on the table; his eyes traveled uneasily
round the gorgeous flamboyant room, in an attempt to avoid the cold
glance of his cousin opposite.
“The Jacobites will try to warn the Macdonalds,” he said.
“They will not know that we have determined on severity,” answered Sir
John. “Doubtless they consider the Macdonalds came in with the rest.”
“And if they do not,” smiled the Viscount, “I think few Jacobites would
be devoted enough to journey in this weather to the Highlands with a
warning.”
“No,” answered his son. “I think the Jacobites are otherwise employed.
They have tha tin hand which will ruin them.”
“A plot?” questioned Breadalbane calmly.
Sir John’s blue eyes narrowed unpleasantly.
“Naturally, my lord—they do nothing else. But I have the threads of
this in my hands.”
Argyll began biting his forefinger nervously, when the Master’s glance
fell on him he obviously flushed, but his cousin’s delicate face was
unmoved.
“Another Bedloe affair, Sir John?” he asked.
“No, my lord. There are great names in it—the greatest. In a few days I
hope to lay them before the King.”
Melville had brought him the maps; he began to lay them out on the
table; Argyll gave him a covert look.
“See, my lord,” said Sir John, and he handed a paper to Breadalbane.
“Is not this correct?” And as he spoke he leaned forward eagerly and
traced with his pen the route Hamilton should take from Fort William to
Glencoe.
Argyll pushed his chair back from the table, withdrawing himself from
the discussion.
“We’re no’ needed,” he said, with an uneasy smile at the Viscount, and
a motion toward the Master and Breadalbane. Viscount Stair lifted his
shoulders.
“’Tis certainly as wearisome as a Parliament sitting,” he answered as
he rose. “John, you must arrange the details of this charming little
affair with my Lord Breadalbane, who seems to be in sympathy with
you—we’re even tired of it.”
The Master flashed the angry glance his father’s mockery never failed
to evoke; but the Viscount laughed as he preceded Argyll from the room.
“My cousin and your son are of a mind,” remarked Argyll.
“In some things,” smiled the Viscount. They passed through the heavy
carved doors into an adjoining room.
“I must be taking my leave,” pursued Argyll weakly, and seemingly now,
when alone with the Viscount, even more ill at ease. “I am due at
Kensington—” he paused, then reached a sudden resolution—“My lord,” he
said, “think you your son will get the King’s sanction for this—this—”
“Affair—” finished the Viscount dryly. “Well, I think my son can do a
great deal with the King. They are somewhat alike, only, unfortunately,
John lacks the steady purpose, that settled calm, that has brought His
Majesty so far. When the keynote to a man’s character is recklessness,
his success may be brilliant, it will hardly be lasting. My son is
absolutely reckless—you marked his allusion just now to this plot he
hoped to discover?”
The Viscount twisted his wry neck with a keen look at Argyll, who
stammered his reply as if it had been frightened out of him.
“I—heard, my lord—he mentioned—”
“’Twas most injudicious,” interrupted the Viscount smoothly. “A little
more and he would have mentioned names—he might even have mentioned
yours, my lord.”
“Mine!” cried Argyll, stepping back.
“Absurd—is it not?—but even supposing you were in the plot, I assure
you that John, knowing it, is capable of disclosing to you that it was
discovered.”
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