Highland Laddie Gone

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 be another 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 ad-libbing, thought Geoffrey. I don’t want to get Cameron mugged by this bunch of… whatever they are. “Absolutely not,” he said solemnly. “That would attract too much attention. It’s best to ignore him. Do you suppose I could have a drink?”

“Well… we usually wait for the boss, but seeing as how you’re obviously somebody important…” He indicated Geoffrey’s Royal Stewart necktie.

One of the men got out plastic cups and a bottle of Drambuie, while another set a small bowl of water in the center of the table. When the cups had been filled, the men held them above the water bowl. A little nervously, Geoffrey followed suit.

“To the king over the water!” they intoned.

Geoffrey, who had spent the last few moments contemplating his necktie and reading the back of the Drambuie bottle, had begun to make sense of things. Charles Stuart again, he thought, noting that the Bonnie Prince was credited with the original recipe of the liqueur. A man of many talents, Geoffrey decided: bootlegger, female impersonator-it seemed churlish to quibble about his generalship. Besides, he had been dead for nearly two centuries; but not, apparently, resting in peace. Surely these clowns couldn’t be contemplating the overthrow of the British government.

“And success to the Scottish Republican Army!” cried the man in the cowboy hat.

Or could they?

Lachlan Forsyth appeared in the doorway, his genial smile fading a bit when he noticed Geoffrey among the kilted conspirators. “Evening, lads,” he said softly.

“Hello,” said Geoffrey quickly. “I think you’ve done a splendid job with the recruits here.”

Lachlan looked at him speculatively. “Oh, aye?”

“Even so, I haven’t disclosed any of the military strategy. I feel that the fewer people who know, the better, don’t you?”

Lachlan nodded. “Perhaps we might have a wee talk later,” he murmured, easing into a chair.

“Oh, absolutely. How about a drink? A little Scotch, perhaps?” Geoffrey was particularly good at parties.

The Hill-Sing bonfire had burned low, and many of the festival participants had picked up their blankets and straggled off toward the campgrounds. Elizabeth, who did not want the evening to end, was giving her best imitation of someone who was still awake.

She sighed. “I love Scottish folk music.”

Since the last song had been “Home on the Range,” Cameron was at a loss for a reply. “It’s after midnight,” he said softly. “Do you think your cousin will be worried about you?”

Elizabeth took a deep breath. “No,” she said. “But having them drag the river for my body would be his idea of a joke. Perhaps we’d better get back.”

“The stars are very nice up here,” Cameron remarked as they walked along the trail. “You can see a lot more of them here than you can in Edinburgh.”

Elizabeth stifled a yawn. “I’d rather see them in Edinburgh.”

“Just don’t expect it to be anything like this,” Cameron warned her. “Over there, if you see someone walking down Princes Street in a full kilt, it’s bound to be an American.”

“So, what is a Scot?” mused Elizabeth sleepily. “Someone with a pedigree back to the Duke of Some body or someone who knows all the dances and songs and customs? Or somebody like you, who doesn’t know any of it, but who has a passport to prove he’s Scottish?” She looked up at him for an answer and promptly tripped over a rock.

“I don’t know,” said Cameron, catching her. “But people who get philosophical at one in the morning while stumbling over rocks are always assumed to be Irish.”

“Close enough,” murmured Elizabeth, suiting her actions to the words; and Cameron had one brief flash of anxiety before he discovered that, despite their other cultural aberrations, Americans were perfectly sound in the matter of kissing.

Some time later, they reached the porch of Elizabeth’s cabin; all was dark. “Good night,” said Cameron, kissing the Maid of the Cat. “Thanks for a lovely evening.”

Elizabeth smiled. “Be thankful I remembered where the rock was.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” laughed Cameron as he started down the steps. “I’d better-good God!”

“What’s wrong, Cameron?”

“I haven’t seen the Carsons since four o’clock. I have no idea where I’m going.”

Elizabeth took a deep breath. “You can stay here,” she said in a small voice.

Cameron hesitated. “Well, I suppose I could, if you wouldn’t mind. Is there a couch or something?” he asked, following her in.

Quite amazingly dim, thought Elizabeth. I wonder, do unicorns follow him at a respectful distance?

Cameron flipped on the light. “No couch. Ah, is that Geoffrey’s room? Perhaps he wouldn’t mind?” Before Elizabeth could phrase her opinion that Cameron would be safer with her, he had tried the bedroom door and found it locked. “Should we try to wake him?”

Elizabeth picked up an empty Drambuie bottle from under the chair. “Not a hope,” she said cheerfully.

“Oh! Well, there’s always the floor. Do you have an extra blanket?”

“I don’t take up much room,” said Elizabeth softly, pointing to the double bed.

Steady on, Cameron told himself. This country was getting more interesting by the minute. “Right,” he said