Page 28 of Midnight on the Scottish Shore

28

Lyness Sunday, January 25, 1942

“Not the best Burns Night,” Lachlan called to Arthur as the men struggled to lash down an accommodations hut at Lyness Naval Base—a hut bucking under a force 10 southeasterly wind and driving snow.

“I thought you Scots preferred such weather.” Arthur turned his head a wee bit too far, and the wind ripped off his hood. He wrestled it back up.

“Aye, we do.” With his sea boots braced in the snow, Lachlan forced his chilled, gloved hands to work. “That’s why we’re such fierce warriors.”

“Barbarians.”

“Aye, and proud of it.”

The roaring gale meant no sabotage would occur tonight. Scotland herself had forbidden it. Rescheduling would take time. Not only did they need proper weather and a moonlit night, but Yardley needed to orchestrate every detail, including how and when the police and the press would be notified.

“Ready?” Arthur’s words tumbled in the drifting snow.

“Aye.” The men guided a hawser over the rounded roof of the steel Nissen hut, as the wind threatened to seize the line and whip the officers who dared defy the storm.

On the far side, the hut sheltered them somewhat.

“Is Burns Night like Hogmanay?” Arthur asked.

“It’s festive, aye. Food and music and dancing.” Lachlan secured the hawser to the stake, trying not to think of Cilla dazzling him as she danced. “We recite poetry and eat haggis and tatties and neeps—but mock haggis now with the war on.”

“Mock haggis, mock goose, mock custard. Infernal war.”

“Aye.” Infernal war indeed. In the past week, Luftwaffe bombers had killed a man at Out Skerries Lighthouse and the wife and daughter of the principal keeper at Fair Isle South Lighthouse. Cilla’s position at Dunnet Head might save that lighthouse and its inhabitants, but only if the Abwehr informed the Luftwaffe.

A sigh crystallized to ice inside Lachlan’s scarf. Infernal war, damaging lighthouses and sinking fishing boats. The antisubmarine vessels had found no sign of a U-boat. And why would a U-boat attack a lowly fishing boat when rich targets like warships and cargo ships sailed nearby? A naval mine was the likely culprit.

That should help soothe Cilla’s guilt.

“As we speak, your family is in their warm house eating warm mock haggis and reciting poetry,” Arthur said. “Without you.”

“Aye.” On Burns Night, “Address to the Haggis” was recited, but another Robert Burns poem felt more appropriate for this stormy night.

Lachlan leaned against the well-lashed shed and clapped his hand to his chest.

O, wert thou in the cauld blast

On yonder lea, on yonder lea,

My plaidie to the angry airt,

I’d shelter thee, I’d shelter thee.

Or did misfortune’s bitter storms

Around thee blaw, around thee blaw,

Thy bield should be my bosom,

To share it a’, to share it a’.

Or were I in the wildest waste,

Sae black and bare, sae black and bare,

The desert were a paradise,

If thou wert there, if thou wert there.

Or were I monarch o’ the globe,

Wi’ thee to reign, wi’ thee to reign,

The brightest jewel in my crown

Wad be my queen, wad be my queen.

Arthur’s ice-encrusted eyebrows arched high. “Why, Lachlan Mackenzie, you’ve a romantic soul.”

“Never.” If he had, he would have recited the poem to Cilla on the boat, not to Arthur at the naval base.

Shouts arose up the road, hurled by the wind, and Lachlan and Arthur tugged their hoods tight about their faces and went to investigate.

Leaning forward at a sharp angle, Lachlan shoved one foot in front of the other, through several inches of snow.

If he had a romantic soul, when Cilla came downstairs with his mother after her ordeal, Lachlan wouldn’t have said, “Are you all right? You look right peely-wally.”

Pale and wan, and his mother had protested quite appropriately.

If he had a romantic soul, he would have said what he truly thought—that even when peely-wally, she was bonny beyond words. That her fun-loving ways brought joy. That her impulsiveness showed she simply couldn’t imagine failure. And how beautiful that was to a man who could imagine nothing but failure.

Snow needled his cheeks, and he pressed onward.

If he had a romantic soul, he would know how to act around Cilla without his familiar prop of guarded distrust. Without it, he felt as off-kilter as the hut up ahead, tipping drunkenly in the wind.

Thank goodness, a progression of gales had kept him away from Dunnet Head ever since. But someday, he’d return. Longed for it even. Somehow, he had to learn new ways around her.

Trusting her might have freed his heart to fall for her, but a naval officer would never be allowed to date an enemy spy, no matter how loyal she was to the Allied cause. With romance forbidden, he had to prevent love from taking root in his exposed heart.

Arthur stumbled into Lachlan. “Didn’t we become officers so we wouldn’t have to do such things?”

Lachlan managed a chuckle, which turned to ice inside his scarf. “No, we became officers so we could lead. And so we lead.”

At the hut, Lachlan and Arthur joined the group of men leaning on the side of the curved steel roof and coaxing the hut back to earth.

Arthur grunted as he fought the corrugated metal. “The Italians are receiving a fine welcome.”

“Aye, they are.” He shouldn’t feel sorry for the prisoners of war, not after how the Italian army had invaded Egypt, threatening the Suez Canal and the flow of precious oil to Britain. But an Orkney gale presented a cruel welcome for men accustomed to the sunny Mediterranean, and as human beings, they deserved mercy.

“‘Blessed are the merciful: for they shall obtain mercy,’” he whispered into his scarf. “‘Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the children of God.’”

After quoting the Beatitudes to Cilla, he’d read them again—and been struck.

For a dozen years, he’d been waiting to show mercy until Neil apologized. Waiting for Neil to make peace.

Lachlan had it reversed. He needed to show Neil mercy and strive for peace, regardless of Neil’s actions.

On that Sabbath Day after the fishing boat sank, he’d attempted it over dinner and asked Neil about work and about their family in Inverness. The flimsiest of olive branches. A twig. But Neil had accepted it and answered his questions in a civil manner.

All Lachlan knew was he didn’t want his brother hurt or imprisoned. Neil meant well, wanting what would benefit Scotland. But Lachlan also couldn’t let him endanger the Allied cause—because that would endanger Scotland most of all.