Page 10 of Midnight on the Scottish Shore

10

Creag na Mara Saturday, May 31, 1941

Dark clouds pressed like lead in the sky above, pressed like lead in Lachlan’s soul. Not even the sight of Creag na Mara could lift them.

He trudged up the lane to the creamy two-story home with its weather-mottled slate roof, grand and earthy in equal measure.

Inside the front door, he set down his overnight bag.

A woof, and Effie trotted into the entryway, her fluffy tail curled high.

Lachlan squatted before her, pressed his forehead to hers, and ran his fingers deep into her ruff. His chest ached.

“Lachlan’s home.” His mother’s voice rang from the drawing room.

Footsteps approached, and parental greetings poured warm upon him, but Lachlan couldn’t lift his head, couldn’t speak.

“Lachlan, love?” Mother asked. “What’s wrong?”

He shook his head, tried to pull himself together, and stretched to standing.

Two pairs of worried eyes assessed him. Why did sympathy repel him even as he longed for it?

He pulled in a deep breath. “Do we have any tea?”

“I’ve saved our ration.” Mother gestured to the drawing room. “Come on through.”

In the drawing room, a tea tray rested on the coffee table. Lachlan settled into an armchair, his parents chose the sofa, and Mother poured cups for everyone.

Lachlan stirred his milky tea. “Have you heard about the Hood ?”

“Aye.” Father’s voice deepened. “Did you have friends aboard?”

He could only nod in reply. Three days after the Hood and the Prince of Wales departed Scapa Flow, they’d found the Bismarck and the Prinz Eugen in the Denmark Strait, the passage between Greenland and Iceland.

German guns had smashed into the Hood . She’d sunk in a matter of minutes. Of over fourteen hundred men on board, only three had survived.

Edmund Fitzsimmons was not one of them. Neither was Johnny Johnson. Nor were Neville Forth nor Clive Stanley nor the other officers and ratings he knew from the Royal Naval College and his service on the Antelope .

“I’m so sorry.” Mother’s brown eyes brimmed with compassion.

Lachlan dropped his gaze to his tea. “I should have done more.”

“Done more?” Father asked. “What could you do from Scapa?”

“The Luftwaffe sent reconnaissance aircraft over the base almost daily before the battle.” He flipped one hand to the ceiling. “They fly high and fast. Antiaircraft fire cannae reach them, and our fighters cannae scramble fast enough to catch them at that altitude.”

“Aye ...” A question colored Father’s tone.

“They knew when our fleet departed. They were waiting.”

“How is that your fault?” Father’s sandy eyebrows drew together.

Lachlan clamped his lips together and shook his head. “My duty is to protect the fleet. I failed.”

Father’s square jaw shifted to the side. “Is that what your commanding officer said?”

Not in so many words, and Lachlan lifted one shoulder. “He said our ability to protect the fleet is limited.”

“Och aye.”

“He also warned me against failures in the future.” Lt.-Cdr. Bennett Blake seemed eager to add another mark to Lachlan’s record.

Father lifted his teacup to Lachlan. “Congratulations.”

Lachlan pulled back his chin. “Con ... pardon?”

“Congratulations to you for sinking the Bismarck .”

Was his father daft? “I wasnae there.” The British fleet had hunted down the German battleship and sent her to the bottom of the sea.

With his teacup high, Father leveled his gaze. “If you’re responsible for the loss of the Hood , then you’re responsible for the sinking of the Bismarck .”

Lachlan hated it when his father was logical. “Aye. Only fair.”

“Excuse me, please. I’ll be back shortly.” Father set down his teacup and saucer, and he left the room.

A fourth teacup sat on the tray, and Lachlan frowned at it. “Is Neil here?”

“No. He rang not long ago.” Mother sighed. “We hoped he’d come. His birthday’s tomorrow.”

Neil would find his own debauched way to celebrate, and Lachlan released a scoffing grunt.

Mother mashed her lips together. “I hate to mention this when you’re grieving, but I do wish you two would reconcile.”

His poor sweet mother, and he gentled his voice. “I’m sure it’s difficult being torn between two sons you love.”

Mother’s cheeks agitated and reddened, and she fussed with the tea things.

Lachlan took a sip and set down his cup. “I would be glad to forgive him if he showed any remorse at all. But he—he’s proud of betraying me.”

Mother stood, smoothed her tweed skirt, and went to her little writing desk. Standing with her back to Lachlan, she straightened a stack of letters. “The Lord forgave your sins, love. And he longs to forgive Neil’s if he should ask, as I pray every day.”

Lachlan grimaced. Was it wrong to hope Neil never asked?

Pencils clicked as Mother rearranged them in the pencil holder. “I’ve always admired your sense of duty. You’re a man of integrity, like your father.”

“You both taught me well.” If only Neil had learned the same lessons.

“But duty ...” Mother’s voice cracked, and she shook her head. “Duty must be paired with mercy. ‘Blessed are the merciful,’ the Lord taught us, ‘for they shall obtain mercy.’”

Lachlan could still hear his own words to the spy on the beach, hear them with ripping pain. “May the Lord have mercy on your soul. I have none.”

All the air rushed from his lungs, bowing his shoulders low.

“Och, love, I’m sorry.” Mother rushed behind him and set her hands on his shoulders. “I shouldnae have said that. Not today.”

“No. No, you’re right, Mother. You’re right.” He straightened up and gave her a wry smile. “And I didnae want sympathy anyway.”

She clucked her tongue at him, patted his shoulders, and returned to the sofa. “By the way, I’ve also talked to Neil, told him to stop goading you. But you know how strongly he feels about Scottish separatism.”

With effort, Lachlan lightened his voice. “Is he seeing his friends from Free Caledonia?”

“Och, I hope not. What a bad crowd. Did you hear the police raided homes of Scottish nationalists in the past month? Arrested a few men?”

“Aye.” His brother’s movement twisted an understandable desire for more home rule into treachery. Fomenting division when unity was vital, urging able-bodied men to defy conscription when every hand was needed, excusing Germany when fourteen hundred British men had just perished at German hands.

As if Hitler himself spoke into their ears.

Perhaps he did.

Father entered the drawing room carrying two wooden bagpipe cases. He set Lachlan’s on the floor in front of him.

Not today of all days. “Och, I havnae played in over two years.”

“All the more reason.”

“I—I have no heart for it.”

“We’ll play ‘Flowers of the Forest.’ For the men of the Hood .”

The ancient song had been played to mourn the fallen at the Battles of Flodden and Culloden and had been played at every Scottish funeral Lachlan could remember.

His eyes and his throat tickled, and he nodded.

He picked up his bagpipe case and followed his father outside, to the bluff overlooking the sea. Overlooking the beach where he’d captured Cilla van der Zee.

More of that obnoxious tickling, and he cleared his throat. Whatever had led a seemingly intelligent woman to such a treacherous path? She would die for it.

He winced. He’d turned her in, and she’d die.

But he’d done the right thing, the only thing. He might not have shown mercy to her, but how could he have let her escape? How would that have shown compassion to his family and friends, to release a spy into their midst?

Lachlan drew a strengthening breath of brisk sea air. He tucked the tartan-covered bag under his arm, rested the three drone pipes on his shoulder, and put the chanter in his mouth. After he inflated the bag, the first discordant notes erupted.

He played a scale and missed a note.

One of Father’s eyebrows shot up. A renowned piper, he’d taught both his sons.

Lachlan repeated the scale until it ran smoothly. Bagpipes could play only nine notes, but the artistry came in the embellishments and the length of the notes. He’d have to rely on Father for any of that artistry.

Father caught his eye, nodded once, and tapped his foot four times.

Together, they played “Flowers of the Forest.” The mournful notes curled up into the air, over the bluff, across the beach, and over the sea.

For the men of the Hood . For Fitz and Johnny and Neville and Clive. Dying far too young.

And why? Why had they died? Because of Nazi greed for more land, more power. Because of their need to destroy, to poison minds and hearts to hate their fellow man, to lure young ladies to sacrifice their lives for that cause.

How many thousands had already died? How many more thousands—millions—would die before it ended?

A warm sensation streaked down Lachlan’s left cheek. Quickly chilled and tingled.

Tears.

Lachlan missed a note, drawing his father’s gaze. Drawing a knowing and pitying widening of his pupils.

The Germans had made him cry—and in front of his father.

One more offense to lay at their feet.