GLEN SIAN, JULY 12th, 1746, 6:45 p.m.

It was a strange, shattered, haphazard day. The Campbell militia swaggered out of the dimness in the forenoon, laden with plunder from disaffected households and blithely unconcerned over their orders. Mordaunt had a fierce exchange with their cadet, who demanded to see the colonel and was closeted with Bancroft for nearly an hour: the Scot emerged in a pique and bivouacked where he was told, but it was not far enough from the English for whom they felt such hatred and mistrust, and several fights broke out. The last regimental women, with the rest of the men and pack ponies bearing baggage and bread, arrived in the afternoon.

He had never liked women on campaign. If anything, they became more inhuman than their men, and the brutal, toughened creatures who had followed the Fourth through the Low Countries were no exception. Thieves, whores, harridans, seldom loyal companions, they had lost every vestige of pity or compassion, and they looked with indifference on the activities of their husbands or lovers in the green glens from Inverness to Fort William. The army was their home, the army's business their livelihood. They could not afford to criticize its methods.

A little knot of them stood gossiping outside his quarters now. He tolerated the degeneracy of their conversation for a while, then he flung open the door and shouted, "God damn you all for unholy bitches," and slammed it. Silence ensued.

The day wore on. His breakfast had been ammunition loaf and brandy: he continued to drink throughout the afternoon, every sound and interruption an assault on his nerves. The obscenities of the women in particular offended him. His head was aching and he felt sick with alcohol, but he was not drunk: all he had achieved was an unendurable, sodden sobriety.

There had been some post, but it was for others waiting at Fort Augustus. There was nothing for him, and he could not write: there were now no innocent words, no reassurances to give her, no contemplation of a future beyond this present hell.

By mid-afternoon he was forced to light the cruisie lamp in order to read the dispatches from Inverness. They were properly Bancroft's concern: Bancroft, however, was seldom in the humour to deal with them and was not so inclined today, and Brevet delivered the leather bag with his cool, God-damn-you deference and inscrutable smile. Except for that brief appearance, Bancroft himself had not been seen.

Eventually he became conscious of a presence in the room: Brevet had left the door open in another little fit of delinquency, and he looked up, resenting the invasion of his privacy. The girl was watching him with patient eyes.

"What the hell do you want?"

"Beg pardon, sir. I just wanted to ask you summat."

"What is it that it cannot be answered by your sergeant?"

"My sergeant won't keep his hands off me long enough to let me talk, sir."

"Go on."

Her man had died, a common enough problem for a camp follower, but instead of taking another from among his mates as was usually done she had determined to leave the army altogether. However, she had no other means of support, and she had come to ask for his intercession in obtaining the dead man's pay, which was in arrears.

It took him, even in this mood, aback. A private soldier earned sixpence a day, from which any amount his officers thought fit could be stopped for his uniform, ammunition, for offenses, or merely out of malice. He was not familiar with this man's record, but if he had behaved like the rest of them it was likely the army owed him nothing at all. But his woman had had the courage, or the stupidity, to ask. Doxies had been flogged for less, and men too.

And yet she had not been bold, and stupidity was too harsh a word to apply to her. Innocence might have been a better: there was innocence in her eyes and in the haggard face, and he realized with guilt and a growing self-abhorrence that she could not be more than fifteen or sixteen years old.

"It was impertinent of you to come to me like this."

"I know it, sir. But I hoped you'd forgive that in me."

Granville, he thought: the name she shared with the dead man, although they had not been married. At that moment she sucked in her breath and pressed her hand to her belly, and he half rose instinctively. She made a little deprecating gesture to indicate that he should not touch her. It was not proper, and she had no need of his concern.

"Are you ill, Granville?"

"No, sir. I miscarried on the road, but I'm brave now."

"You don't look brave." He had thought himself hardened to the bitter life of women in the regiment: perhaps he was less so now than he had been. "Has anything been done for you?"

"Nawt they can do for me now, sir."

He said rather more gently, "Why did you approach me with this? There are junior officers at Fort Augustus who would have helped you, had you waited."

"I heard you was a decent man, sir. There's others that ain't."

There was no answer to that.

"Very well. Do you want me to have a word with your sergeant?"

For the first time she revealed fear.

"Oh, no, sir, don't. He'd only make it worse for me. An' it please you, don't."

Her appeal touched him oddly, and, damning himself for the power rank and class gave him over her, he said, "I will not then, if you would prefer it."

"I thank you, sir."

She stood still, looking at the table now, her fingers twisted in her skirt, and he became aware that she was offering repayment in the only currency available to her. He had no doubt that she had served other officers, to mitigate a punishment for Granville or herself, to secure favours of one kind or another, to hasten pay that was, as always, in arrears.

He said nothing, felt nothing, had felt nothing since Inverness, and she read the bleak silence and returned to the anonymity of the ranks.

About five in the afternoon there was a peremptory rap on the door. He called, "Come," and continued to read the dispatches.

He looked up to find Brevet standing before him, face flushed, but otherwise as inscrutable as ever.

"Colonel Bancroft's compliments, sir, and he wishes to know your decision in the matter of Stirling."

"In the matter of what?"

"You are to say whether you or I will go tonight with the warrant for the arrest of Ewen Stirling. Captain Campbell is waiting for the word."

"And what is it to him?"

"The Campbells are to accompany us, sir. They have business on the estate."

He thought, yes, and I have no doubt of what it is.

"Your answer, sir?"

"Since you are so intimately acquainted with the situation, perhaps you should go." Brevet's face fell, but he instantly recovered himself. "Take heart, Lieutenant. If you are out of pocket, as young men of your station usually are, perhaps you will find some trifle or other worth your attention in his house."

Brevet said coldly, "How many men shall I have under my command, sir?"

"Fifty will be adequate. The Campbells are well versed in these procedures."

He had some little peace after Brevet left, during which he sat considering the dispatches, then Bancroft summoned him.

Bancroft was at supper. There was evidence, another plate, an untouched glass, that he had not been or had not intended to be alone.

For a moment he continued with his meal. The salt beef had been cut for him but his left hand was still unaccustomed to the task, and some of the wine had been spilled.

Mordaunt, inexplicably moved, said, "You sent for me."

The eyes came to him, luminous with opium, but whatever the drug had done for Bancroft it had not robbed him of his acute sensitivity. He pushed the plate aside.

"So you came. I was beginning to think you wouldn't. A glass of wine with you?"

"Thank you, no."

He was aware of the alcohol on his breath, and the exquisite irony of Bancroft's disapproval.

"As you wish." A faint, cordial smile. "There are a number of issues I want to discuss with you. I have this moment heard of your altercation with Captain Lord Elcho Campbell. I caution you against offending one of so powerful a family... you know who his father is, of course."

"I don't care if his father is the risen Christ. I don't tolerate that behaviour from my servants. I certainly will not tolerate it from him."

The smile was thinner now, and unamused.

"The second reason was selfish. I wish to apologize for what I called you last night."

"I've been called many a worse thing. No doubt what Elcho is calling me now would make bastard pale by comparison."

"You are nothing if not gracious."

"And your handsome apology was nothing if not sincere."

Bancroft gave a slight cough.

"Well. Since we have forgiven one another our trespasses, will you not have that glass after all?"

"I said I would not, thank you."

The hand arrested itself halfway to the bottle. It had been a peacemaking gesture. Now there would be no peace.

"Why so delicate of a sudden? Turning Methody, are you. Or do you think me contagious, Achill: won't you drink with a sodomist tonight?"

"You'll spare me nothing, will you?"

"What do you spare me?"

He rose and walked, full of an erratic activity, tapping his hand along the back of the chair: he showed fatigue, yet seemed unable to remain still.

"I understand that you have plans to go abroad this evening."

"Yes. I had not thought they were generally known."

The fleeting smile. For one who rarely left his quarters, Bancroft was remarkably well informed, but then he had eyes and ears in some one else.

"Where do you go, if I may ask?"

"To Glen Mor. The fugitive MacNeil has a wife there, according to the reports. I propose to go and question her, if she may be found."

"When do you go?"

"I was on the point of leaving when you sent for me."

"You take... how many men with you?"

"None. I had hoped to come and go quite unremarked."

"There is no question of you coming or going anywhere, as far as I am concerned."

Mordaunt said, "You misunderstand me, Colonel. I am not seeking your permission."

"You intend to go, in defiance of me?"

It had meant nothing to him before. Now, perversely, it had become an obsession, a symbol, a cause.

"If I must."

Bancroft gave him a long, contemplative stare.

"I think I should have foreseen this. But you're a gambler, ain't you: you like to live on the edge." He resumed his seat, leaned back. "Your behaviour has become increasingly strange over the past few weeks. I would willingly give you the chance to explain it before I come to conclusions I may in future regret."

"I am afraid I don't understand you."

"I think you do. You've been spoiling for something since we left Inverness... for a time I thought it was scut. Now I see it's to be a fight. You should choose your antagonist with more care." His fingers began their fretful drumming. "When you undertook to defy something this evening, was it the army, or was it me? And before you answer, Major, I must remind you that in the eyes of the Crown they are one and the same."

He said nothing. Bancroft said, "Damn you. Why must you make this so difficult for me? I am not your enemy." Then, "Sit, will you." When there was no response he looked up sharply. "I desire you to sit, if you please."

When he had been seated Bancroft allowed him to remain so for a time: the silence was intended to instill apprehension, as the order to sit removed the advantage of his greater height. He was no stranger to Bancroft's subtleties, and when they were understood they could not intimidate. He waited.

Bancroft began to speak in a quiet, conversational voice, examining the veins on his hand: the stump of the right wrist was hidden beneath the table. After a moment he picked up the unused knife and drew on the table's surface, throwing the lamplight back from the blade in irregular flashes.

"I am going to say something to you, and I hope there will be no other occasion on which I must say it. When we begin to clash as officers we tread on very dangerous ground. I think I hardly need to warn you." The hand replaced the knife, tired of its diversion. "When you defy me you flout my authority, you hold me up to the ridicule of the men, you undermine my position with them and the respect they have for me. I cannot allow that to happen: I will not allow it. I will sacrifice my feelings for you if I must to make that clear."

He looked up: the grey eyes were pitiless. "Don't let it come to this, Achill. I've always dreaded it. You may abuse me as a man and perhaps you have a right to, but when you defy me as your colonel you do yourself deadly harm. You can ruin us both this way. Are we understood?"

"Yes."

"And will you continue on this course?"

"Yes."

"You know that I could have you arrested."

"I am aware of that."

"Then, Christ, why do you persist!"

The wine quivered in the glass: its reflection stilled.

"I have tried to understand you-- I told you I was not without sensibility. I know you are a moral man, and this campaign offends you. But I will not be your scapegoat."

"Nor I yours, Aeneas."

Bancroft sank back in his chair. The languor of the drug seemed suddenly to have overcome him.

"God's blood, do as you please. I've done with you." A new irritant presented itself. "What did that whore Susannah Granville want with you?"

His informant had been very thorough. Bancroft gave him that flickering smile.

"You need not imagine very much escapes my notice."

"I had not imagined that in the least."

"What did she want?"

"Granville's pay. I'm glad you told me her name. I had forgotten it."

"Insolent slut, what does she plague you for? Why don't she go to Brevet?"

"I do not believe Lieutenant Brevet is very popular among the men. And I am your adjutant, not he."

"I won't have any favours dealt out to her. And don't think you can pay her out of your own pocket without my hearing."

"Very good, sir."

"No, don't get up. I haven't finished with you yet." The fingers drummed again. "I have heard distressing things about your conduct toward Lieutenant Brevet: your mention of him brought them to mind. You've been harassing him. I want it stopped."

"And who was the bearer of this tale?"

"I had it from David himself, and you damned well know it's the truth."

"Besides keeping you informed of my activities, does he make a habit of imagining grievances against me like some slighted nance?"

Bancroft said, "That is enough."

"I don't think it is. When a man makes an accusation against me, I prefer it to be made to my face. And if there has been harassment, it has been on his side, not mine."

"Are you calling him a liar?"

"Of course it's a lie. And as for him, he's beneath contempt."

"You admit that you despise him."

"I have never denied it. I think he's the devil's cub, and if you were any judge of men you'd know why."

Bancroft said, "By God, you overreach yourself!" and stood, possessed by that feverish tension. "Listen to me now, and listen well. I will not have men savaged to humour you, I will not have my officers abused to gratify you, I will not tolerate vendettas between you and the rest of the world. You are a disturbed man and you cannot deal with your command-- that is a pity. But if your personal weakness begins to affect the stability of my regiment, then I can promise you what you seem to want. You'll wish you were in hell for all the peace I'll give you."