and his wife from the manse. They knew it was only rung in times of peril. The old folk said it had been rung during World War II when a fishing boat sighted a German destroyer.
“What is going on?” panted Mrs. Wellington.
The villagers began to stream in as Hamish went up to the pulpit. “The government has ordered Archie Maclean’s boat to be decommissioned. He’s to take her to a scrapyard in Denmark. I want someone to start a petition.”
“I’ll do that,” shouted Mrs. Wellington.
“That’ll be a start,” said Hamish. “But we’ll need more than that. I’ll see if there are any press left up at the hotel and try to get them interested.”
Mr. Patel ran to his shop and came back with reams of typing paper. A table was set up, and people crowded around to sign.
Hamish came down from the pulpit and, after adding his name to the list, headed up to the Tommel Castle Hotel. “Are any of the national press still here?” he asked Mr. Johnson.
“The television people have gone, but there’s two nationals, a French newspaper, and some of the Scottish ones. You’ll find them in the bar.”
Hamish walked into the bar, a sudden bold idea striking him.
Luke was there, his eyes blurred with drink.
“Gentlemen of the press!” shouted Hamish. “I have a story that will interest you.”
Silence fell.
“Archie Maclean, a local fisherman, is having his boat forcibly decommissioned, and he has been ordered to take her to a scrapyard in Denmark.”
Bored eyes stared at him. Just another poor fisherman out of work. They’d heard it all before.
“And so,” said Hamish, raising his voice, “the villagers are that mad wi’ the government that they are declaring independence for Lochdubh.”
Now he had their attention. Several were already wondering if a headline ‘The Mouse That Roared’ might be too old hat.
“If you will follow me down to the church hall, you’ll see what I mean.”
Hamish sprinted out and drove fast back to the hall, where the whole village was now crowded around the petition table.
“I’ve declared Lochdubh independent,” he shouted. “The press are coming. Stick to the story.”
A big forester asked, “Can we put up roadblocks into the village and ask them for their passports?”
“Great idea,” said Hamish. “But quick. I can hear them coming. Some of you drag me along to the police station and lock me in the cell.”
The press arrived just in time to see Hamish being frogmarched along the waterfront. Thank goodness for all those mobile phones with cameras in them, thought Hamish. This’ll be on television tomorrow.
He was locked in the one cell in the police station with his dog and cat. They handed the key through the bars to him ‘chust in case you feel hungry during the night,’ and headed off.
Hamish then phoned Elspeth and told her the story. “Oh, Hamish, I’m so tired, but I can’t miss out on a story like this. I’ll drive through the night.”
¦
Although not much visited by tourists, Lochdubh was a very scenic highland village. By next morning, the story was round the world. Film of a crumpled and sobbing Archie Maclean was beamed into homes from the north of Scotland to Japan.
Police contingents, roaring over from Strathbane, found their way barred by roadblocks manned by locals with deer hunting rifles and shotguns.
Blair tried to land in the police helicopter but was driven off by rockets fired up at him – not army rockets, but ones left over from the last fireworks display.
Some wag had found a skull and crossbones used in an amateur production of
Hamish was photographed in his cell. “This is an outrage,” he was quoted as saying, “but on the other hand, I can’t say I blame them.”
He hoped desperately that the London reaction he was counting on could have its effect before the police decided to use force.
¦
In Number 10 Downing Street, the prime minister, Simon Turl, paced up and down. His popularity had been fading fast. He was addicted to photo opportunities and grabbing headlines and therefore shoved through unpopular acts of Parliament without even considering the consequences.
“How am I to handle this?” he asked his adviser, Sandy McGowan.
“Oh, stop dithering, man. It’s simple,” growled Sandy. “Say that wee fisherman got the wrong papers by mistake and there’s to be an enquiry. Do it fast. Take the wind out of those villagers’ sails. No prosecutions.”
“But other fishermen will try the same trick.”
“It won’t be newsworthy if they do. Copycat stories never are. Get on with it.”
“Perhaps I should fly up there myself. I can see myself standing on the habour…”
“And getting stoned by the locals. I’ll handle it. You’re due at the House.”
¦
Superintendent Daviot gave orders for police to be fitted out in riot gear and armed with stun guns and tear gas.
They arrived in force at the barricade on the Strathbane road.
The villagers on guard raised their guns, their faces grim.
Daviot opened his mouth to give the order to charge when his phone rang. It was his secretary, Helen. “The prime minister’s office phoned. You’re to stand down. The papers sent to Archie Maclean were a mistake. No one is to be charged with anything. It’s to be calmed down and out of the newspapers as quickly as possible.”
The villagers manning the barricade watched uneasily. Then Daviot approached the barrier.
“The decommissioning papers were sent to Mr. Maclean by mistake. So take down this ridiculous roadblock. I would arrest the lot of you, but I have orders from Number 10 that there are to be no prosecutions.”
Hamish, in his cell, heard the cheering. He unlocked his cell and walked outside the police station.
Villagers were surging along to meet the cheering men returning from the roadblock.
Archie Maclean saw Hamish and cried, “There he is! There’s my hero!”
The crowd gathered around Hamish and lifted him up and carried him in triumphal procession from one end of the waterfront to the other.
Up on the Strathbane road on a crest of the hill looking down on the village stood Inspector Mary Cannon.
“Give me a pair of binoculars, someone,” she shouted.
A policeman handed her a pair. She lifted them to her eyes, focussed them, and glared down at the magnified sight of Hamish Macbeth being carried round the village.
“So that rogue policeman is responsible for this fiasco,” she muttered. “What a waste of police time. I’ll have that man.”
She turned to the woman police sergeant beside her. “Keep your handcuffs ready,” she said, “and follow me.”
The triumphal procession carrying Hamish was heading for the pub when they found themselves confronted by one very angry police inspector.
“Put him down!” shouted Mary. “Hamish Macbeth, I am arresting you for inciting riot. Anything you – ”
“No, no,” said Archie, glaring up at her. “This is by way of an apology. We locked the poor man up in his cell. He had nothing to do with it at all.”
Mary faced the crowd. “Is this the truth?”
There came a chorus of agreement.
Mary suddenly knew she had made a terrible mistake. She saw she was being filmed and recorded for television. She knew Number 10 wanted the story killed. She did not believe for a moment that Archie had been
