Summer of Love by Gian Bordin Page B

don’t comprehend it. We were
resting behind bushes, when suddenly four dragoons with their officer and
a young Campbell lad came riding down the glen."
         "Yes, that’s them all right," interrupted Dougal.
         "Anyway, we ducked for cover, but the officer must have spotted us, and
they came charging. We ran down into the ravine—the only escape
route—but a bullet hit me in the thigh, and I fell. I ordered the others to make
a run for it. The four dragoons pursued them, while the officer stayed behind.
He had his second pistol out and was aiming at me, when suddenly the
Campbell lad shot him at close range—"
         "You were probably his target and he hit the officer by mistake," Dougal
interrupted again. "That deceiving bugger could not even hold a pistol
straight—the coward that he is!"
         "No, Dougal, you are wrong there. It was a very clean, well-aimed shot.
Almost like an execution. Went into the man’s temple and out the other
side."
         "Mm," mutters Dougal, waving his hand with a sneer.
         "But now it gets even stranger. The lad calmly reloads his pistol and then
only checks the officer, and ties him over the horse… All done in absolute
silence. He never even looked at me. Then, he tosses the officer’s pistols to
me, and says calmly: "You killed him, understood?" and off he rode, after
the dragoons. I was too stunned to say something, and that takes quite a bit…
A very strange lad. And a Campbell of Argyle! The very people I just faced
in battle! I owe him my life. I was sure to meet my maker right then. The
English had his pistol trained on me and was pulling the trigger. I was lying
on the ground, hardly twenty feet away… And I didn’t even thank the lad…
My cousins soon came back to fetch me after they were able to shake off
their pursuers in the ravine."
         As he told the story, Mary stopped tending his wound, her eyes almost
taking the words off his lips. When he finished, she sighed. "The officer is
dead, you said."
         "Yes, as dead as a corpse, and killed by a Campbell."
         "One down, four to go," she murmured.
         Dougal pressed out a forced laugh. "Five, woman."
         MacLaren looked questioningly from one to the other. But he did not ask
what was meant. He seemed to have guessed that the women suffered more
than just blows.
         As Helen listened to Donald MacLaren, cold shivers ran up her spine.
Betty came to her, and she folded her arms protectively around the girl, as
much to comfort her as to share her anguish. Her mother’s curse had struck
like lightening, and in the most unexpected way, while her father’s correction
felt like a stab in the back. For a moment, she held her breath. Betty began
to tremble again. She took the girl back to the rough straw sack that they
shared as mattress and lay down with her.
     
     * * *
     
    That night, holding her restless sister, sharing her plaid for warmth, sleep
escaped Helen until the early morning. Her thoughts went in circles. She
couldn’t understand Andrew’s actions. Why had he led the soldiers to their
clachan? Why had he brought the dragoons into the shielings? Why had he
helped Betty and her to get away unhurt? Why hadn’t he tried to prevent the
dragoons from raping her mother and aunts, but then killed the officer in cold
blood? Executed him. Wouldn’t they hang him for this? Was her father right
that he hadn’t raped her because he was impotent? But why had he then
helped Betty? Had he joined her attacker with the intention to rape her and
then suddenly discovered that he couldn’t? The fright in his eyes hadn’t
looked like the fright of shame, but rather the terror for what might happen
to her. His impatient plea for her to pretend hadn’t seemed to be motivated
by fright for himself, but for her. She got more and more confused.
           When the first glimmer of dawn entered the hut, she finally dozed off,
only to be woken shortly afterward by