The country round Balmoral is primitive at the best of times; on a dank autumn day it's like an illustration from Bunyan's ‘Holy War’, especially near our destination, which was an eery, dreary forest of firs among the mountains, with great patches of bog, and gullies full of broken rocks, and heather waist-deep on the valley sides. The road petered out there, and we clambered out of the brakes and stood in the pouring wet while Albert, full of energy and blood-lust, planned the campaign. We were to spread out singly, with our loaders, and drive ahead up to the high ground, because the mist was hanging fairly thick by this time, and if we kept together we might miss the stags altogether.
We were just about to start on our squelching climb, when another brake came rolling up the road, and who should pile out but the Russian visitors, with one of the local bigwigs, all dressed for the hill. Albert of course was delighted.
"Come, gentlemen," cries he, "this is capital! What? There are no bearss in our Scottish mountains, but we can show you fine sport among the deer. General Menshikof, will you accompany me? Count Ignatieff — ah, where iss Flash-mann?" I was having a quick swig from Ellen-borough's flask, and as the Prince turned towards me, and I saw Ignatieff at his elbow, very trim in tweeds and top boots, with a fur cap on his head and a heavy piece under his arm, I suddenly felt as though I'd been kicked in the stomach. In that second I had a vision of those lonely, gully-crossed crags above us, with their great reaches of forest in which you could get lost for days, and mist blotting out sight and sound of all companions — and myself, alone, with Ignatieff down-wind of me, armed, and with that split eye of his raking the trees and heather for a sight of me. It hadn't even occurred to me that he might be in the shooting party, but here he came, strolling across, and behind him a great burly unmistakable moujik, in smock and boots, carrying his pouches.
Ellenborough stiffened and shot a glance at me. For myself, I was wondering frantically if I could plead indisposition at the last minute. I opened my mouth to say something, and then Albert was summoning Ellenborough to take the left flank, and Ignatieff was standing watching me coolly, with the rain beating down between us.
"I have my own loader," says he, indicating the moujik. "He is used to heavy game — bears, as his royal highness says, and wolves. However, he has experience of lesser animals, and vermin, even."
"I … I …" It had all happened so quickly that I couldn't think of what to say, or do. Albert was dispatching the others to their various starting-points; the first of them were already moving off into the mist. As I stood, dithering, Ignatieff stepped closer, glanced at my own ghillie, who was a few yards away, and said quietly in French:
"I did not know you were going to India, Colonel. My congratulations on your … appointment? A regimental command, perhaps?"
"Eh? What d'you mean?" I started in astonishment. "Surely nothing less," says he, "for such a distinguished campaigner as yourself."
"I don't know what you're talking about," I croaked.
"Have I been misinformed? Or have I misunderstood your charming wife? When I had the happiness to pay my respects to her this morning, I understood her to say — but there, I may have been mistaken. When one encounters a lady of such exceptional beauty, I fear one tends to look rather than to listen." He smiled — something I'd never seen him do before: it reminded me of a frozen river breaking up. "But I think his royal highness is calling you, Colonel."
"Flash-mann!" I tore myself away from the hypnotic stare of that split eye; there was Albert waving at me impatiently. "Will you take the lead on the right flank? Come, sir, we are losing time — it will be dark before we can come up to the beasts!"
If I'd had any sense I'd have bolted, or gone into a swoon, or claimed a sprained ankle — but I didn't have time to think. The royal nincompoop was gesticulating at me to be off, my loader was already ploughing into the trees just ahead, one or two of the others had turned to look, and Ignatieff was smiling coldly at my evident confusion. I hesitated, and then started after the loader; as I entered the trees, I took one quick glance back; Ignatieff was standing beside the brake, lighting a cigarette, waiting for Albert to set him on his way. I gulped, and plunged into the trees.
The ghillie was waiting for me under the branches; he was one of your grinning, freckled, red-haired Highlanders, called MacLehose, or something equally unpronounceable. I'd had him before, and he was a damned good shikari — they all are, of course. Well, I was going to stick to him like glue this trip, I told myself, and the farther we got away from our Russian sportsmen in quick time, the better. As I strode through the fir wood, ducking to avoid the whippy branches, I heard Albert's voice faintly behind us, and pressed on even harder.
At the far side of the wood I paused, staring up at the hillside ahead of us. What the devil was I getting in such a stew for? — my heart racing like a trip-hammer, and the sweat running down me, in spite of the chill. This wasn't Russia; it was a civilised shooting-party in Scotland. Ignatieff wouldn't dare to try any devilment here — it had just been the surprise of his sudden appearance at the last minute that had unmanned me … wouldn't he, though?
By God, he'd try anything, that one — and he knew about my going to India, thanks to that blathering idiot I'd married in an evil hour. Shooters had been hit before, up on the crags, in bad light … it could be made to look like an accident … mistaken for a stag … heavy mist … tragic error … never forgive himself …
"Come on!" I yammered, and stumbled over the rocks for a gully that opened to our left — there was another one straight ahead, but I wasn't having that. The ghillie protested that if we went left we might run into the nearest shooters; that was all right with me, and I ignored him and clambered over the rubble at the gully foot, plunging up to the knee in a boggy patch and almost dropping my gun. I stole a glance back, but there was no sign of anyone emerging from the wood; I sprang into the gully and scrambled upwards.
It was a gruelling climb, through the huge heather-bushes that flanked the stream, and then it was bracken, six feet high, with a beaten rabbit-path that I went up at a run. At the top the gully opened out into another great mass of firs, and not until we were well underneath them did I pause, heaving like a bellows, and the ghillie padded up beside me, not even breathing hard, and grinning surprise on his face.
"Crackey good gracious," says he, "you're eager to be at the peasties the day. What's the great running, whatever?"
"Is this piece loaded?" says I, and held it out.
"What for would it be?" says the clown. "We'll no' be near a deer for half an hour yet. There's no occasion." "Load the dam' thing," says I.
"And have you plowing your pluidy head off, the haste you're in? She'll look well then, right enuff."
"Damn you, do as you're told!" says I, so he shrugged and spat and looked his disgust as he put in the charge.
"Mind, there's two great pullets in there now," says he as he handed it back. "If you've as much sense as a whaup's neb you'll keep the caps in your pooch until we sight the deer." They've no respect, those people.
I snatched it from him and made off through the wood, and for ten minutes we pushed on, always upwards, through another long gully, and along a rocky ledge over a deep stream, where the mist hung in swirls among the rowan trees, and the foam drifted slowly by on the brown pools. It was as dark as dusk, although it was still early afternoon; there was no sound of another living soul, and nothing moving on the low cliffs above us.