Hostage in the Highlands

By Duncan Watt

This is the ninth in the Wallace Boys series. Following their adventure in London and Cornwall, the boys go to the far north-west of Scotland where they intend to refurbish a yacht, the ten-metre Silver Spray, prior to sailing her out to the South Pacific. They meet up with Richard Hannay, a boy of their own age, the grandson of the famous John Buchan character in 'The Thirty-nine Steps'.

The Silver Spray is lying up on Loch Machray overlooked by a magnificent island castle similar to the famous, dramatic Eilean Donan, but no one can visit the island, for it is certain death for anyone who dares. Like Gruinard Island, this island too was infected with the deadly anthrax bacteria during a biological experiment during World War Two.

Bruce then lands accidentally on the island in thick fog!

And then the excitement really starts, involving the IRA and a royal hostage, secret tunnels, laird’s lugs and a bottle pit dungeon!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Duncan Watt
• Release date: Mar 16, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476489766

Duncan Watt

I was born in Africa where I grew up; but I have lived in countries like England, America, Papua New Guinea and Japan. I have now lived in Singapore for 35 years.When I was teaching in Zambia I wrote a couple of books in simplified English for my students and these were published by Oxford University Press. Since living in Singapore, where I have, among other things, appeared on the TV News for nearly twenty years, I have written 20 books in my Wallace Boys Series - 11 of which were published here in Singapore.Please visit The Wallace Boys Web Site to find out more about the books, and there is more about me too.

Book preview

Hostage in the Highlands

An Adventure of the

Duncan Watt

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Smashwords Edition

Copyright 1994 Duncan Watt

License Notes: This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this ebook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

First published in 1994 by Tynron Press

Reprinted in 1995, 1996

Revised edition published in 2000 by Graham Brash Pte Ltd,

_

The chart extracts are reproduced from Admiralty Chart 1785 by permission of the Controller of Her Majesty’s Stationery Office and the UK Hydrographic Office and with my thanks.

Grateful thanks are given to the Scottish Portrait Gallery for allowing me to use the engraving of Bonnie Prince Charlie by L Toqué, especially to Dr Rosalind K Marshall, author of the two excellent books Bonnie Prince Charlie and Queen of Scots, published by HMSO.

The detail from the painting of the Duke of Cumberland by an artist of the school of D Morier is printed with the permission of the National Portrait Gallery, London.

The detail from the painting of The Last of the Clan by Thomas Faed is printed with the permission of the Glasgow Art Gallery.

And my sincere thanks to Mark Rangel for all his unstinting help with the revised maps and diagrams in this edition.

My thanks to the Chemical Defence Establishment at Porton Down for their valuable help in supplying information about Gruinard Island.

Cover and illustrations by Paul O’Shea

Maps and diagrams by Duncan Watt

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To Nicky MacGillivray, a childhood friend,

from whom I first learned about the Battle of Culloden

and the Well of the Dead where his ancestors lie buried.

Contents

Maps and Diagrams

1. Below the Crags of Dark Lochnagar

2. To the Highlands Bound

3. The Island of Death

4. Down to Loch Machray

5. The Boys Get Down To It

6. Home is the Sailor

7. Bruce Takes a Swim

8. Fog!

9. On Death Island!

10. The Silver Spray

11. Richard is Missing

12. Castle Machray

13. Into the Pit

14. The Secrets of Castle Machray

15. Rescue Bid

16. The Round Up

17. Failure!

18. The Final Round

A Note on Loch Machray

The Hand and Lead Line

Glossary

End Notes

Maps and Diagrams

Balmoral Castle Grounds

North-West Scotland

Where the story takes place

The area around Loch Machray

Part of Admiralty Chart 1785 A

Part of Admiralty Chart 1785 B

The Principal Floor of Castle Machray + Legend

The Dungeon of Castle Machray

The Second Floor of Castle Machray

The Top Floor of Castle Machray

The Profile of the Silver Spray

The Deck Plan of the Silver Spray

The Silver Spray looking good

The interior of the refurbished Silver Spray

Castle Machray

1

Below the Crags of Dark Lochnagar

For the hundredth time that day the man put the binoculars to his eyes. He stiffened and fiddled with the focussing ring. Yes, there it was! Fluttering above the battlements was the Royal Standard. At last! All these days and nights of waiting had come to an end. He could now make his move.

He turned over on his back and looked at the sky, letting the binoculars slide off his chest. He ran his fingers through his black hair. Relief swept through him. The long period of waiting was over.

He knew exactly what he had to do and within a few minutes the little camp was dismantled and everything was thrown into the pit he had already dug: the one-man tent, the sleeping bag, the cooking equipment, the tins of food he hadn’t eaten, everything. There was no trace of his camp after he had filled in the pit and covered it carefully with clumps of heather and moss.

Already the sun was sinking low and casting long shadows in the corrie[1] below the craggy walls of Lochnagar[2], where the last of the previous winter’s snow still remained in one sheltered spot. The man shivered and, shouldering a small rucksack, set off at a brisk walk down to Balmoral Castle.

He was a small man in his late twenties. He looked almost delicate, but his tight-fitting black clothes hid a body of whipcord muscle. He had a cat-like grace as he strode down the rough mountain path.

As he walked, he caught glimpses of the castle through the trees, stands of firs and silver birch. And above the highest circular turret in the clock tower on the right flew the Royal Standard; Balmoral Castle was occupied for the summer.

By the time he reached the wooded hills surrounding Balmoral, the weather had changed. Low clouds, coming in from the west, obliterated the late sunset, but this was exactly what the man wanted. He wanted a night as dark as possible and when the first squall of rain rustled the leaves of the silver birches, he couldn’t have asked for more.

He pulled a ski-mask over his face and slipped on a pair of thin rubber gloves. Like a black shadow, he flitted through the extensive woods to the south of the castle. Craggy Lochnagar behind him was now wreathed in cloud. He looked at his watch. His timing was perfect; the sentries would be changing over.

Suddenly he stopped. Someone was standing not twenty metres away, motionless in the bracken. A dog barked in the distance. The man sank to his knees to wait. Then he almost laughed out loud. And what harm can old John Brown do you, I ask myself? he muttered as he continued walking down the rough path between the birches and pines. For a moment he stood beneath the statue of a bearded man wearing a kilt; he pushed aside some tall foxgloves and he could just make out Queen Victoria’s words carved into the stone:

Friend more than Servant,

Loyal, Truthful, Brave.

Self less than Duty, even to the Grave.

"And then the old lady’s son goes and kicks you out here to the backwoods, you poor old guy, after all your faithful service. At least he didn’t have you melted down[3]!"

The man left the fine, kilted statue and swung to the left through the birch wood. He knew from his visits to the grounds several weeks before, when Balmoral was open to the public, that he would soon be passing the golf course. In the distance stood the statues of Queen Victoria and her Prince Consort, Albert, facing each other. He skirted the vegetable gardens and sunken flower gardens and the conservatory. Across a wide stretch of lawn, he saw the castle, lights glowing in many of the windows. The clock in the square tower on the right struck midnight. Again he was among the silver birches, their slender, lichened trunks white and ghostly in the darkness.

Once he was past the Water Garden, he ducked under two tall beech trees. The lights from the windows of the west wing didn’t penetrate to where he crouched, hidden behind a large statue of a tusked boar. On his earlier visit he had wondered what the significance of the boar was; why should this statue have been erected in this particular place? He’d found no answer, but it proved an ideal spot to reconnoitre from. On his right was a weeping beech. Its lower branches brushed the grass in the breeze. On his left, incredibly black in the darkness, stood an immense copper beech. Keeping well down behind the statue of the seated boar, he watched the west wing of the castle and when the wind dropped he could hear the gentle plash of water in the sunken Rose Garden.

A car left the porte-cochère, where obviously a departing guest had just been picked up. Its bright lights momentarily flashed over the statue of the boar and the man froze. The disappearance of the car seemed to act as a signal, for, one by one, the windows on the ground floor were plunged into darkness. The great panelled wooden doors of the porte-cochère swung shut. The man looked at his watch. He wouldn’t have long to wait, he thought. He shifted his position slightly to relieve a cramped muscle.

He was now just waiting for one set of lights on the second floor to go out; an oriel window and the two smaller sash windows on either side. The main light was extinguished but there was still the glow from a bedside lamp. Come on, boy, it’s time you were asleep, the man murmured to himself impatiently. "It’s well past your bedtime, even if it is the first night of your holidays!"

Suddenly out of the darkness from beyond the Water Garden, two guards strode by and his heart beat faster, but they did not stop. Their footsteps crunched into the distance as they marched along the south facade of the castle.

The glow from the second floor window had disappeared! The man stood up warily. For a few moments, he checked that he had everything. He picked up his black rucksack and like a shadow he sprinted to the Rose Garden, his rubber-soled shoes whispering across the grass and barely making any sound on the driveway. He threw himself down behind the balustrade surrounding the sunken garden. He hitched a wary eye over the lichened wall and, as he hesitated for a moment, he idly studied the statue of a chamois perched on a rock fountain.

All was quiet except for the plash of the water in the fountain, and the rush of the distant River Dee as it curved to the north of the castle.

Bent low, he crawled towards the building. The entire ground floor was now in darkness and he knew that he couldn’t be seen, a black shadow on a black night. He ran, bent double, to just below the oriel window, where he straightened up. He leaned against the wall below the corbelling[4] that held up the oriel window. He paused, controlling his breathing. He could feel his hands sweating in their gloves. Three steps took him to a corner where he took hold of the ivy growing up the wall. Behind the ivy, wire-netting covered the stone.

Like a tree snake, not disturbing so much as a branch or a leaf, he made his way upwards. Carefully he tested each hand- and foot-hold, before trusting his weight to the vegetation. Up he went, past the decorative corbelling set in the corner. He was making for a very narrow sash window, just to the right of a turret.

Balancing himself, he gently slid the lower half of the window upwards. He passed his rucksack through first, and then, like a cat, worked his head and shoulders through the gap, avoiding getting tangled with the cord attached to the blind. The rest of his body followed smoothly in one movement. He found himself crouching on the window-sill of a bathroom. He slid the sash down.

Fortunately, as he had expected, the occupant hadn’t had time to spread out all the usual bathroom clutter. Lightly, he jumped to the carpeted floor which he crossed in one fluid movement. He hesitated for a second, leaning against the door. No sound came from the room beyond. Then, infinitely slowly, he eased the handle round and pulled the door towards him. He released the handle, and, leaving the bathroom door slightly ajar, crossed to the bed.

The gentle sound of breathing told him that the occupant of the room was fast asleep. He risked using his torch momentarily, the beam heavily muffled with a cloth. From his rucksack he took a small bottle and a pad of cotton wool. At once, there was a sharp cloying smell in the room, and the man’s fingers felt suddenly very cold through the light rubber gloves, as he emptied some of the contents of the bottle onto the cotton wool.

There was a brief struggle as the man forced the cotton pad over the sleeper’s mouth and nose. Two very young, very frightened eyes stared into the darkness at the black shadow above him. He tried to cry out, but the man was strong and held him down.

Sorry, boy. Just keep still, a voice whispered in the youngster’s ear, not unkindly. I’m not going to harm you. I’m taking you away for a bit, see.

Already the chloroform was taking effect. The struggles lessened and reluctantly the eyes shut once more, the eyeballs rolling upwards, showing white.

The man pulled back the bedclothes, and in one practised movement had the boy over his shoulders in a fireman’s lift. He gripped the boy’s right wrist. Shrugging slightly, he eased the boy into a more comfortable position. He padded to the door, which he opened a fraction, allowing his eyes to become accustomed to the light of the corridor. There was no one about.

Meeting nobody, he reached the first staircase and descended to the darkened ground floor. He opened a door, and without putting down his burden pushed one of the sash windows up. He swung his legs over the sill and dropped lightly into the flowerbed. There he stood still, head cocked, listening. He looked up to the second floor, expecting to see lights flash on in all the rooms, but the windows remained dark.

Satisfied, the man walked along the west facade, the sound of rushing water getting louder. He followed a path bordered by flowers to the banks of the River Dee. Making sure that his load was secure, he carefully let himself into the water. At once the current dragged at his legs. Taking one cautious step at a time, he began crossing the river, feeling each footstep before advancing. The icy water was well above his knees in places, and several times he felt a rock move underfoot.

The bank on the other side was a black curtain of larches and pines. Once he reached there, he knew he’d be safe. The water tugged at him and as he approached the left bank the river became deeper. The weight on his shoulders was getting heavier and he struggled the last couple of metres, putting all his remaining strength into each step he made, forcing himself forward. At last he stumbled up the bank, gratefully sinking to his knees.

A figure came hurrying out of the trees and gently picked up the boy. He carried him over to a waiting car. At once, the headlights cut a swathe through the darkness as the car lurched up a rough slope onto the A93 in the direction of Aberdeen.

Operation Balmoral was successfully accomplished.

2

To the Highlands Bound

An icy blast of rain-laden wind lashed the length of the station platform.

And they call this summer! a fair-haired boy in his late teens burst out. He was struggling with a bulging rucksack that had stubbornly got itself stuck in the carriage door.

"Come on! Hurry up! And quit complaining. The train will leave in a moment and I’m not off yet, came an exasperated voice from behind the blocked door. And there are others behind me."

I’m trying!

You certainly are! came the angry retort.

There! It’s free.

About time! The train will go any moment now. The second speaker stepped onto the wet platform and looked around him, while the first speaker unsuccessfully attempted to swing his rucksack onto his shoulders. He overbalanced and cannoned into several of the other passengers, who like the two boys were also carrying rucksacks. They were all hurrying to the overbridge. Here, let me help you, said the second speaker.

No thanks. I can do it myself.

Have it your way.

Just at that moment the blue-and-white train started and, picking up speed, disappeared down the single track. The diesel engine gave one long, mournful hoot, which the wind whipped away.

"Did you know that train’s called the Supersprinter? said the first speaker, pushing strands of sodden hair out of his startling blue eyes. He set off along the platform. About the slowest train I’ve ever been on. If it had gone any slower, it would have been going backwards; and it was ten minutes late, too!"

That’s what we’ll be, if you don’t get a move on. The bus won’t wait for us, you know. This was Nigel Wallace, a year older than his brother Bruce. Unlike Bruce, his hair was dark but he had exactly the same startling blue eyes. He was taller and slimmer than his brother. Both boys were from the Central African country of Zimbabwe, where they were at the university in the capital, Harare. They had taken a year off from their studies and this was their first visit to Scotland.

On the overbridge, the two boys caught up with the other passengers, swathed in waterproofs, who were hurrying to get out of the driving rain.

One could see that Lairg[5] station, with its four north-bound trains a day (three on a Sunday) during the summer months, was never a bustling sort of place and today was