Page 14 of Somewhere Along The Way (Mackinnon #3)

Chapter Five

“Percy! Where in the hell are you?”

The library doors rattled on their hinges and banged open.

Like a shot from an overheated pistol, Ross Mackinnon burst into the room.

“I’ve been obliging for all the things you’ve thrown at me up ‘til now,” he said, “but this time you’ve gone too far.

Tell me one good reason why I need to learn Gaelic? ”

Percy lowered his head and peered at Ross over the top of his glasses.

With a labored sigh, he laid the Glasgow Free Press aside.

He had been quietly engrossed in an article discussing the morality of anesthetics in childbirth—a major issue since the discovery of chloroform.

He looked at the young man who had just barged into the room like a runaway locomotive with steam pouring from beneath his collar, and thought of yet another use for chloroform.

“I never said you had to learn Gaelic, Ross. I said you needed to familiarize yourself with it. It is the language of your forefathers. It is still spoken extensively in some parts of Scotland—but even I’m not such an ogre as to demand you learn to speak it. That could take years.”

Ross relaxed somewhat, even going so far as to look a bit sheepish.

“You’ve got a lot to learn, lad, if you’re ever to wear the mantle of Clan Mackinnon with the same dignity as your grandfather,” Percy said.

“You’re too impetuous and too sure of yourself.

Sometimes that makes you appear uncaring.

A rash young chief is what you’ll be called, and ill-qualified is the reason they’ll give to back it up. ”

Ross remained silent and Percy stared hard at him, thinking to label the lad as such would be a great underestimation of his ability.

True, he was young, and at times rash, but that was a deceptive barn that hid a war-horse inside.

Scotland had need of strong, young leaders such as this, men who would come in the wake of her fast-spreading fame in the civilized world.

A movement begun by Robert Burns and Sir Walter Scott that had already begun to transform the image of the uncivilized barbarians of the Highlands into fearless heroes with their hearts in the right place.

It was men like this young firebrand standing before him who would help restore to the Scots the self-confidence and self-respect that the past century had so devastatingly destroyed.

Scotland would be given back her history and her pride, and it would come through young men such as this one.

“You’ve a lot to change about yourself, lad, or you’ll find yourself in charge of nothing. The men won’t follow someone they don’t respect.”

Ross clenched his fists at his sides. “They’ll respect me when I’m chief of the clan.”

Percy resumed his upright position and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Do you think the moment your grandfather passes the title to you that it will simply happen? That all the clan members will suddenly hold you in high esteem?”

Percy could tell by his expression that that was exactly what Ross thought.

He shook his head. “Why is the highest mountain always the one covered with mist?” he whispered.

“It won’t happen that easily. They’re Scots, lad, and Scots never do anything without a bloody good reason.

If you think you’ll immediately hold the loyalty and friendship of every clan member, you are bloody mistaken.

Why would they become devoted to a man who won’t even try to understand them and their ways?

Would you respect them if they did? Whether you learn their ways or not, you will be tried.

You can count on it. The first time you meet the clan members as chief, you will find a reception about as warm as yesterday’s porridge.

You’ll have to earn their respect and loyalty, lad.

It’s no easy task for any man, and you’ll have a harder go of it than most.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re a foreigner.”

“I’ve got as much Scots blood in me as any man born here.”

“Men don’t follow blood. They follow men—men who are leaders.

Your balking every time you’re asked to learn their ways and customs, or told to familiarize yourself with their ancient language and traditions, will serve you ill.

Continue to hold yourself separate and apart and they will see to it that you stay that way. ”

Ross didn’t say anything, but his scowl was deeper than before, his mood suddenly subdued by introspection.

Percy clapped him on the back. “Be of good cheer, lad. Wisdom often comes when we’re low as a pine marten, not when you soar with eagles.

You were born green; now is the time of ripening.

Your hour in the sun will come. Time will correct your mistakes and teach you what I cannot.

Time is the rod of God, the rider to tame the ways of youth. ”

Ross sat down. “You said yourself that I don’t have much time to learn the things I need to learn.”

“The butterfly has but a season, but it’s enough.” Percy saw his words were getting through.

“You know how to make a man feel lower than a snake’s belly,” Ross said. “Every time I open my mouth, I find my boot in it, spurs and all.”

“Then remain silent. It too can be a teacher. Many a man has come to regret his words; few regret their silence.”

Ross leaned back in the chair, the leather creaking comfortably as he looked at the man sitting across from him.

How different he seemed now from that man of his first impression.

Here was a man who could go where swords could not, a man whose ammunition was swifter and more certain than bullets.

All his life, Ross had lived by his fist or his gun and his ability to dig in his spurs and hit the road in a cloud of dust when the odds were stacked against him.

He now gazed thoughtfully at Percy’s fragile frame.

Here was a man the wind could buffet, a man whose strength lay not in sinew and muscle, but in wisdom and wit.

For the first time in his life, Ross found something he envied in another man, something that could not be his by force or demand, something that would come to him only through patience—something Ross knew he didn’t possess in abundance.

For the first time since his father’s death, he felt cheated, not just of a father’s love, but cheated of the things he would have been taught, the things he could have learned.

So deep in thought was Ross that he did not notice Percy get up and move to stand in front of the window.

After lengthy introspection, Ross, feeling infinitely lower and smaller than he had moments ago, grunted and pulled the sheaf of papers toward him.

He did not hear Percy move, but he felt his hand ruffle his hair.

“Obedience is a good sign, lad. If you can’t obey, you can never lead. ”

Ross looked over the list of words: lochd cadail , a wink of sleep; meirghe , a banner; tacar , produce; sealbh , possession; dais , a ditch or furrow; gartlann , cornfield.

He would never be able to make anything of words like these.

It should have been a tremendous relief to know he wasn’t expected to learn the language, but his rashness, his jumping to conclusions left him feeling uneasy.

He felt as lost and without direction as he had the day the sheriff had ridden out to the Mackinnon place on Tehuacana Creek and told the five Mackinnon boys that their father was dead.

Percy watched Ross lose himself in the pages before him.

Soon he would teach the lad to pronounce some of the words he was so studiously humped over; soon he would teach him—through the Gaelic writings of his ancestors—about wisdom and pain and suffering.

But for now, he would sit back and enjoy the lad, for there was nothing like watching an illumined mind at work.

Ross was at his pinnacle now. For him the whole world sparkled and glistened with the light of understanding—a rare stone to be picked up and put into the pocket.

Percy folded his hands over his stomach and leaned back.

Just as he was about to close his eyes, he caught a glimpse of the old duke standing in the doorway, the carved features of a weathered old man suddenly appearing years younger, his skin radiant with the sparkle of pride.

But it was in his eyes, misty with the feeling, that made Percy know what the old man saw when he looked at Ross.

He wasn’t seeing his grandson. He was seeing himself.

When the Mackinnon left, Lord Percival rose from his chair and followed him into his private study.

Moving to the window, the Mackinnon looked out across the lawn and could not help thinking of his own youthful follies, the way he had with the lassies, and the striking similarity between them and those of his grandson.

The lad was something to be proud of, a bright ray of hope after a long and bitter darkness.

The duke had lost two sons, but he had gained a grandson.

Ross was everything he could have hoped for in a son: strong and determined, eager, with a sense of fairness.

He was a wolf’s whelp, orphaned young and turned off the teat too soon.

Still, he had learned, on his own, many of life’s lessons.

Lessons that would serve him well later on.

The Mackinnon felt his spirits lifted to heights they had not attained in years.

The lad had given him something to look forward to, a reason to live.

He hadn’t done so badly after all. Hearing someone come in, he turned, and seeing Percy, he said, “Seems the lad is having a hard go of it. He’s wild and unruly as they come, I can see that much. Are you worried about him?”