“A kind suggestion!” says Craig Douglas swiftly and loudly, “And nobly said. What do you think of it, men? Will we give him that old pole?”
He turns his back on Shafto and stands with fist on hip staring up at the golden eagle above the slowly flapping banner. His question has not been aimed at anyone so nobody replies until he looked sideways at his tallest and most slovenly officer saying, “You are our thinker Wat — you read history books, have been to the stars, have turned down a chance of living forever. What should I do?”
“Give him the pole. Let’s go home for a wash and a breakfast,” says Wat loudly, “We can order another pole. Our aunts will weave another banner.”
“There speaks the voice of reason!” cries Craig Douglas, cheerfully clapping Wat on the shoulder, “The voice of reason and NOT the voice of cowardice as we who fought beside Wat Dryhope yesterday know. But war isnae a reasonable trade.”
He moves away from his officers, still staring up at the banner. His voice becomes quieter but more distinct.
“That old pole means a lot to me. I started fighting for it a week before the eldest of you was conceived. We’ve done well since then. In battle after battle we’ve conquered and won allies until Ettrick has seized standards from Wick to Barrow and taken some on commons as far south as Sunningdale. But today Ettrick is the only undefeated clan on the Scottish Borders — one hundred and eight of us, mostly cadets and fledglings — one hundred and eight hungry, thirsty folk surrounded by over a thousand experienced, well-watered, well-fed warriors. So my good son Wat says, ‘Drop the pole. Give them the flag. They’ll take it anyway. Nobody will blame us.’ That is reasonable advice and I reject it!”
He flings his right hand toward the flag crying, “That flag flew over us in the bonny days when we were many and strong. Will we abandon it now just because we are few and weak? Have we become so sensible — so comfortable — so unmanly that we can bask like lions in the sunlight of victory but flee like hens from the shadow of certain death? A heroic defeat makes brave men as glorious as a victory I think!” He points upward at the public eye which floats round the standard between him and his crescent of soldiers, but he looks to them as he declares, “There is the eye which will show the world how the Ettrick clan will die, will show your sweethearts and aunts how their men can die! I ask you to die with me so that our death will be viewed and viewed again to the last days of mankind and television and time! Is anybody with me?”
As nearly everyone draws breath to roar their support Wat yells, “Stop and listen! Listen to me!”
All stare at him. The public eye draws near. With a gesture which tries to dismiss it he says, “Yes Dad, we fight to show our contempt for death but we old ones have done that more than once. Remember the bairns, the fourteen-year-olds! This is their first war. Give them the chance of another. Send them home.”
“Thanks for reminding me,” says Craig Douglas walking into the crescent of troops behind the standard, “Let the fledglings he speaks about take one step forward.” In the front rank some lads glance sideways at each other but none move their feet.
“Come,” he says kindly, “Ye cannae hide from me! Charlie and Jimmy, you’re fourteen — I know my sons’ ages. And Sandy, Kenneth, and Alec are my kin among the Bowerhopes. Step forward, loons, or I’ll command each of ye singly. An auld bitch like me cannae have mutinous pups.”
Twenty boys shuffle forward. He smiles and says, “You were bairns when I brought ye into battle two days since. Now you are warriors. This is my last order for you. Go behind the Northumbrian lines with General Shafto. Return to your aunts. When your wounds heal join the veterans and Boys’ Brigade in the Warrior house where you will be the only officers. Review this war from start to finish. Learn from our mistakes. Teach the Ettrick youngsters how to avoid them. Prepare future victories to avenge the losses of today. Away with ye!”
Still the boys keep their places, some looking sideways at each other, some staring doggedly ahead. One raises a hand.
“Aye, Charlie?” says the General.
Do you think … if we fight beside ye … we’ll let Ettrick down, Dad?”
“I doubt it, Charlie.”
A renewed silence is broken by an older boy in the rear.
“Permission to speak, Uncle.”
“Granted.”
“The young loons ken the laws of democratic warfare as well as we. You were elected to lead us in battle. You cannae order men to retreat unless their wounds or characters make them encumbrances.”
“I agree,” says Craig Douglas gently, “Step back those who choose to die with the rest of us.”
The youngsters step back.
“I tried, Wat,” says the General, sighing and strolling to the standard, “But all my fledglings have turned into eagles. Will you leave me now?”
“You’re a waster, Dad,” said Wat glumly, “An arrogant feckless blood-crazy waster. But I cannae live alone among the women.”
“So I have reason on my side after all!” shouts Craig Douglas with a laugh. Everyone but Wat echoes it. Even Shafto and the herald are laughing.
“General Shafto,” says Craig Douglas in a voice cutting the laughter short, “Thank Sidney Dodds and say we will meet his men — ” (he glances at his wristcom) “ — in nine minutes.”
“Good!” says Shafto, grinning. He salutes and strides back down the hill with the herald. The public eye remains.
“Mibby I’m a waster, but I’m not feckless when it comes to strategy,” Craig Douglas tells his army, “We cannae win this fight, but we won’t lose it if you do what I say. I and Joe Dryhope will take the rear guard, Colonel Wardlaw the right wing, Archie Elphinstone the left. Wat leads the van with three picked men who take their cues from him. The outcome depends on that … No spying! This collogue is private,” he tells the public eye. It soars upward while the Ettricks pull on their helmets and form a circle.