Highland Laddie Gone by Sharyn McCrumb Page B

him. Of course I have. I think I had to do a report on him once.”
    “Isn’t it sad that the Rising failed?” sighed Elizabeth. “If only they hadn’t had such bad luck—”
    “Yes, but then we’d be out of the United Kingdom,” said Cameron reasonably. “And that would simply kill the economy. It would set us back forty years industrially.”
    Elizabeth shook her head. She couldn’t see what economics could have to do with such a just and noble cause as the Stuarts’ right to the throne. Men had such odd ways of looking at things. But, she thought, snuggling closer to Cameron, it didn’t seem worth fighting about this late in the day.
    As a student of theatre, Geoffrey thought that the Hill-Sing had the most dramatic potential of anything that had happened thus far. He wondered if he could incorporate something similar into the second act of
Brigadoon.
He was just trying to decide what kind of lighting it would take to get the shadows right, when a single voice began a new song.
    “Flower of Scotland, when will we see your like again …”
    Geoffrey noticed that several people about the field were struggling to their feet and standing at attention. Must beanother of their rituals, he thought. Might as well go along with it. Geoffrey stood respectfully, straining to catch the words. Something about “proud Edward’s army.” History, he supposed.
    By the time the singers had reached the last verse, most of the people at the Hill-Sing were standing, out of some obscure instinct to follow the leader.
    “Those days are passed now, And in the past they must remain …”
“They’re dead right about that,” muttered Lachlan Forsyth in another part of the field.
    Near the bonfire, Jerry Buchanan wiped a tear from under his glasses and sang on lustily. So many people standing—the Cause was growing.
    The last notes of the Corries’ song were still hanging in the air when a stocky man in a kilt eased in beside Geoffrey and said in a solemn undertone:
“Stands Scotland where it did?”
    Hello! thought Geoffrey. Another theatre person. Act four, scene three. In his best Shakespearean tones, Geoffrey rounded on the man and proclaimed:
“Alas, poor country! Almost afraid to know itself! It cannot be called our mother but our grave
 …” Then, dropping his pose, he said cheerfully, “There! We’ve quoted from the Scottish tragedy and we’re both damned. Quick—turn round three times and swear!”
    The man shook his head. “You must outrank me, friend,” he drawled. “I just know the ordinary password. Anyhow, I’d like to invite you to a little get-together some of us are having.”
    “A party?” asked Geoffrey hopefully.
    “Yep. You don’t even have to bring your own bottle, seeing as how you’re one of the big-shots. Follow me, sir.”
    The mention of bottles combined with Geoffrey’s natural curiosity to make him follow the man without further discussion. This is interesting, he thought. He managed to resist the temptation to say,
“Lay on, Macduff.”
His new acquaintance led him to a large motor home in the camping area. Inside, half a dozen men in different plaids were seated at a plastic table examining a map of Scotland.
    “The boss will be here soon,” said a man in a green kilt and a cowboy hat. “He had a kid with him, and he’s waiting for the parents to come back.”
    “I found another one of the higher-ups,” said the stocky man, pointing to Geoffrey. “He’s an American, too. Don’t it beat all? I ran across a real Scotsman at the clan tents today, and he didn’t know jackshit about any of this.”
    “No, you mustn’t mention this to him,” said Geoffrey quickly. “He’s M15—British secret service.” He was most gratified by his audience’s startled gasps. This is like improvisational drama, Geoffrey thought cheerfully. I wonder what I’ll say next.
    “Should we get him out of the way?” asked one of the men in carefully neutral tones.
    Whoops—dangerous