The Glenfinnan Manuscript: The Lass With The Siller Buckle

By Iain Fraser Grigor

This novel is the second in a projected five-part series called The Second British Protectorate – a series of high-concept, story-driven commercial fictions from the viewpoint of alternate history, supposing a sovietised post-war Britain modelled on Cromwell's 17th century Protectorate. The themes are both historical and modern. For instance – what shape would a popular rising against such a state have taken? Who would have collaborated with the regime – who might have resisted – and who might have loafed on the leathered benches of least resistance? What would the state's religious policy have been? Might that policy have forced the merger of the churches of Scotland and England? Might the religious and messianic mania of the 17th century have returned? Might it have been believed that Jesus had come (back) to England? Might George VI have gone to the scaffold as Charles I had – dead by winter axe in London's Whitehall? What role would the great lawyers of the land and their sacred notions of constitutionality and amour-propre (not to mention the school-fees) have had in all of this? What about civil liberties, and clear and present dangers to the state? What about the asymmetric distribution of lethal capacities for oppression and resistance? What about the nature of religious identity as the ideology of that resistance? What role might cocaine have played in a ruined command-economy with a worthless currency? Might the Americans have smuggled it into Britain in huge quantities as a way of funding democratic terrorism? The Glenfinnan Manuscript (the lass with the siller buckle) - as the churches of Scotland and England are forced to merge, a band of outlaw Daniels murder the Archbishop of Canterbury in the very centre of Edinburgh, and escape with six tons of English (or British) gold. But – where is that gold now?

• Language: English
• Publisher: AUK Authors
• Release date: Jun 17, 2014
• ISBN: 9781849892964

Book preview

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The Glenfinnan Manuscript

1.

I WILL try to put down here the things that have happened: or as many of them as I can remember. But there is not much time left before they come. And it doesn’t look as if we will get away before they arrive. Anyway, where is there for us to go? But in the time that does remain I will put down what I can remember. In that way a record will have been made of what has happened and of how we came to be here, waiting for the end.

I cannot say how much of it will be completed before the end does come, of course. And I don’t know what might happen to it afterwards. But I will find somewhere to conceal it, in the hope that someday – who knows how long in the future? – it might be found, and bear some sort of witness to our passing. After all, when they catch us – and they will catch us – there can be no doubt about what will then happen. In the meantime, I will work at this little memoir, while the partisans prepare to defend their little kingdom, and get ready to evacuate it when it can no longer be defended.

It’s only a matter of days now since the events in Edinburgh. There have been many arrests already, from what we can hear on the wireless, but it doesn’t say who has been taken. The BBC says that some ringleaders are co-operating with the authorities, and that some have died in custody from accidental drowning, though nobody understands what that can mean. There is still no sign of Thomas and his party. They may have died already, or may still be on the run somewhere in the mountains. We know from the wireless that the other party we left at Katrine has been taken and destroyed. As for Max: I see her when she comes through the village, but she is busy organising what she calls our fighting retreat, and there is little time for us to talk.

There seems to be two parts to the territory. The first is a peninsula which sweeps down between two arms of the sea to the south and west. This is an exceptionally wild stretch of country, though a rough road cuts straight through a deep glen at its centre, and ends at an old castle on the shore of a sea-loch. Max seems to use the castle as her command-centre for operations in that part of the territory. From somewhere in the middle of that rough road a second track sweeps eastwards, down to the sea at Corry. Other than those, however, there is no way through or over this desperate country but by the paths made by the herds of deer that roam here and, as summer approaches, drift daily higher and higher into the mountains.

The remainder of the young partisans’ kingdom is also surrounded almost entirely by the sea. Loch Linnhe guards its eastern shore, and then curves round to protect much of its northern flank. To the south is a long finger of water called Sunart, and to the west of that is the ocean. A great point of land thrusts out in this direction, and I know that the young partisans have a lookout-post at the lighthouse on its western end. North of the point is the wild, indented shoreline of Moidart, with the fresh-water loch of Shiel slicing this portion of the territory into two parts.

I do not know how the partisans think they can escape from this sea-encircled trap. But for the moment, at least, there is no consideration of retreat. All the talk is of our response to the coming Militia assault – which we may expect at any time. The moon now is no more than a thin sliver of light on the horizon at dawn. But soon it will be rich and full: and it is at the time of the full moon, Max says with her usual style of perfect confidence, that we may expect the attack.

Apart from the lookout-post at the far end of Ardnamurchan and the local command centre at Ardtornish, there are another dozen places where the young partisans are based. Detachments are kept more or less permanently at each of the traditional settlements throughout the territory: here in Strontian, at Salen and Acharacle, with lesser detachments at Kingairloch, Kinlochmoidart and Kilchoan. Smaller units are kept at the sickle sands of Corran, with others at Glenfinnan and Lochailort and at somewhere called Camusnagall. From each of these points enemy movements can be observed, and their intentions deduced. There is also a final observation point at the extreme south-east of our territory on the Table of Lorne. It is surrounded by very rough country, and from it the island of Lismore and the southern entrance to the Sound of Mull can be watched at all times of the day and night.

How many partisans there are in total, I don’t know. There must be tens of thousands of them throughout the Highlands as a whole. Here in our own little territory, there are at least a thousand on a more-or-less full-time basis, though there could easily be twice as many.

For the meantime we can move freely on the roads and tracks, except in the middle of the day. The moon hardly climbs above the hills until dawn so the nights are still rather dark. But summer is quickly coming, and the days are getting longer. And as the moon rises earlier the nights will be much brighter than they have been. So movement by day and by night will soon get much more difficult. Our communications and transport units will be forced to operate in conditions of broad daylight. But for the present they appear to function quite well. The intelligence centre here in the village gets reports from the outlying observation posts within an hour of their being sent: and that includes reports from the lighthouse at Ardnamurchan and the castle at Ardtornish.

All these reports indicate that enemy movements are increasing day by day around the borders of our territory. So far as we know, there has been no attempt to land scouts from Mull, or from the Lochaber mainland on the far side of Loch Linnhe. It is possible that some sort of commando force has got in without being detected, for intelligence and reconnaissance work, but none has been caught: and I do not envy the fate of any commando who is, for I overheard Max promise the little boy Fox that he could help with the questioning, and then finish them off.

But there is no doubt that the enemy has increased reconnaissance patrols by air and by sea. Twice a day now, a light spotter aircraft – it might even be the same one that got poor Malcolm on the saddle - patrols Sunart and Linnhe, while another flies the length of our western shores. And each evening a slow-flying plane cruises the length of the great valleys that intersect our territory. Sometimes, these planes are so low that our people in the hills can quite easily see the aircrew: but they are under strict orders not to attempt to shoot the planes down. We think they operate from the aerodrome at Connel, and there is talk that soon we will send some of our own young commandos across there to destroy them.

They are also watching us from the sea. Twice a day, a fast patrol-boat races up Loch Linnhe, from the direction of the marine base at Oban. Sometimes, the boat comes very close to the shore though still travelling very quickly – perhaps as fast as thirty or forty knots. Usually, it races up to Fort William, and then goes on through the narrows to take it to the head of Loch Eil. The same boat also comes up through the Sound of Mull, though it keeps well off our coast. The young partisans say that one did once sail into the mouth of the loch at Ardtornish, and cruised very close to the shore. But it came under intense small-arms fire from the partisans and began to sink quickly. The crew drove it up onto the beach where they were at once shot, and the little ship looted of as much as it would yield. After that, their patrol-boats have kept well off-shore when in the sound.

We don’t have much contact with the outside world now. There may still be some sort of link with the resistance networks in the big cities, but not much. The wireless says that many of them have been destroyed, their members in custody or already dead. Some of them confessed at once and these confessions have been broadcast by the BBC, but I haven’t recognised any of the names – so far, anyway.

We do have links to the partisans to the north of us, but they are irregular. From here to the very north coast of Scotland, much of the wild land in the Protectorate’s hunting reserves is in the hands of young partisan bands - though some of these are indeed no more than savage bandits, who survive by looting and robbery and murder on every hand.

There are also still links with the partisans who hold much of the central Highlands, but contact is increasingly difficult. A wall of steel (in the words of the wireless) has been erected from Fort William to Inverness, and it takes much skill and luck for any of our people to get through it – and then to get back through it a second time. This is why we seldom send scouting parties out into enemy territory: from hard experience, the partisans know that these parties do not always come back. Now and again a deserter from the Militia comes in, usually to trade his life for a piece of intelligence or some item of the sort of weaponry we are likely to want. But apart from that, we have little or no news of the outside world now.

Max says our preparations for the coming attack are almost complete. There is a system of signals and communications established across our entire land area, she says. Some of the younger partisans operate as runners in those mountainous parts where there are no roads. Elsewhere, there is a system of transport which is largely dependent on a handful of bicycles, and the stock-ponies that were kept for mountain-work in the Protectorate hunting reserve that was once maintained here. There are some half-tracks and jeeps too, either recovered from the vehicle-stock of the old reserve or stolen (or bought) from the Militia in Fort William. But there is little fuel for them, and even when there is they can only move at night without headlights, and only when there is a road or track adequate to their needs.

Max and her lieutenants appeared in the village this evening for a conference, or what she called a final planning-meeting. Some of the partisans – and some of them are still very young – came in from the furthest ends of the territory to be present. Many of them, I had never seen before. But at least two of them I did recognise from Edinburgh – two girls, aged about fourteen or fifteen. When I had last seen them, they were decorously dressed as young Edinburgh ladies of the better sort, and taking tea in the private morning-room of the North British Hotel. Now, they were wearing lace-up fighting boots and the sort of scarlet tunics and fur-lined flying-caps that the partisans steal, or otherwise acquire, from the Militia: and each girl was swathed in small-arms, with cross-wise ammunition belts, and grenades casually strung from the waist. Each was also wearing a black beret with some sort of device or badge on the front: but I could not make out the detail, and it hardly mattered anyway.

Max sent one of the younger partisans down to the hotel to bring me to the conference. It was held in the old church, beside the river, just up from the bridge. It must be one of the few churches in Scotland that has not been burned down by now, though Max says we will set it on fire just before we have to evacuate. The meeting began just as darkness was beginning to fall. But it was still not completely dark, and there was a chance of a spotter plane going over. So we took the long route to the church, through the ancient trees at the back of the village, and then up the side of the river, till we came to the meeting.

There were perhaps thirty people there, in the dim lights of the oil lamps. Nearly all of them were Max’s trusted senior lieutenants. There was also a handful of her adult advisers: trusted deserters from the Militia, and some of the old gamekeepers and stalkers from the district, who have charge of the sniping and mining classes for the younger partisans.

Max took the floor at once, and did not waste time. Parties of her best people – that is the expression she used – have been out for the last two days. One of these parties has been on special intelligence work, tasked to find out when the Militia assault can be expected. The second has been sent out on a mission to acquire weaponry. It has been very well equipped with funds – here, Max gave a broad smile around the company - and can be expected to return soon with what it has been sent for: mainly, mortars, extra snipers’ rifles, and at least one mid-size machine-gun, which can be used to take down any slow-flying aircraft, if it is low enough in the sky, and that sky not too dark.

A third party has also been sent out, with the purpose of sabotage. Recent intelligence reports have pointed to a build-up of Militia forces at the airport at Connel. An ammunition and fuel dump have recently been established there. Twenty partisans, under the command of one of the stalkers, have been sent across the south end of Loch Linnhe: they left under cover of darkness two nights ago. Their assault on the base can be expected at any moment. The outcome of this assault will be critical for our escape. If it succeeds, then we might manage to escape. But if the assault fails, then Militia air power will almost certainly destroy us before we have got beyond the borders of our little kingdom.

Max looked round at each of us. Without doubt, a style of command is growing on her with every passing day. In her lapel, she is still wearing the silver buckle, which I have come to know so well. The keepers call her the lass with the siller buckle, just as the old driver who took us to Katrine did, and it is easy to see why they do.

She said, They have put an appeal out for me. It was on the wireless yesterday. If you hand me over, they will not attack. Otherwise, they say they will destroy every one of us without mercy.

Max looked round the company, but in the low light it was impossible to see any expression on her face. Then she looked directly at me.

She said, And you too. They say they want the lass with the siller buckle, and they want the renegade Englishman too. They want both of us.

The partisans stirred in a gentle fashion, and a soft murmur seemed to rise through the church: but nothing was said at all. So Max went on with her speech. Training is almost complete. Some of the keepers and some of the deserters have been teaching sniping and unarmed combat, and the use of knives, improvised explosives and roadside mortars. Preparations for an anti-aircraft capability are advanced, though not yet complete. The important roads, bridges and overhanging cliffs have been mined and booby-trapped throughout the territory. Everyone has been trained in the techniques of camouflage and concealment: especially the stay-behind units who will conduct sabotage operations against the Militia once they come.

Escape routes are also ready, Max says. But for reasons of security, there will be no further information available until the very last moment. There will be at least another three days before the assault begins, and that gives plenty of time for those identified as members of early escape parties to muster at their designated points.

Max looked round the young partisans, who still listened to her with absolute attention.

One more thing, she said quietly, and with absolute authority. Everyone knows what I am talking about. We will bury it here in the mountains, so that they will never find it. Someday, maybe, one of us will come back for it.

The burial will be up the glen beyond Ariundle, in the high-security zone, at a very secret spot, in a cave or one of the old mine shafts, maybe in more than one spot. But the burial will be up there in the mountains, up towards Polloch and Uamh na Seacaide Deirge, or maybe a little beyond. Afterwards, we will use explosives to bring down the mountain on top of it. Once buried like that, no one will ever find it again. Unless they know exactly where to look, of course. Then the meeting broke up.

That was thirty minutes ago. I have just made my way back here to the half-ruin of the Strontian hotel. There seem to be partisans everywhere in the twilight, all armed to the teeth and in a high state of excitement. It is getting dark quickly now, and I won’t be able to write much more than this. A few minutes ago, there was the sound of a gigantic explosion to the south – very distant but very huge. At once, there was a storm of cheering from the partisans throughout the village: but I have no way of knowing what has happened. Maybe the airport installations at Connel have been destroyed. The young partisans seem to think so anyway.

So we don’t have much time now before the assault comes. I will stop writing now. I will start again tomorrow, at first light. And I will start at the beginning. I will go back to my arrival in Edinburgh and start the story from there. How far I get with it depends on when the assault comes. But I will do as well as I can in the circumstances. I will tell the whole story of how the sort of people the BBC calls terrorists and Daniel bandits tried (and failed) to murder the Archbishop of Canterbury in St. Giles Cathedral as he prepared to inaugurate the union of the churches of England and Scotland. And I will record the shocking sequel to that attempt, which took place on the steps of the General Assembly building, in the historic centre of the great city of Edinburgh, just a few minutes later.

That means going right back to the beginning of the story. And it is there that I will begin - at the beginning - at first light tomorrow morning.

2.

I WILL start the story in the first-class bar of the overnight train to Edinburgh, and just as morning was beginning to break over the city, because that – though I didn’t know it at the time – that was the beginning of the story. I had shared a compartment with the honourable members, and they had invited me to the bar with them to have what they said would be one last drink. They seemed to have been drinking all night, though they were still sober enough to want more drink. But the first-class bar had been emptied of drink, and the MPs were showing signs of falling into crestfallen silence, at the terrible injustice of approaching drought.

We sat at a table covered with a white linen cloth, with the name of some ancient railway company embroidered across its corners in bright red lettering. The honourable members had one half-bottle of whisky left, and it was both half-full and half-empty. By now, the bar itself was entirely emptied of customers, for we were drawing close to the outskirts of Edinburgh.

The gent – I could think of no other word to describe him at the time, though of course I would come to see things in a different light later – the gent in the tweed suit represented a constituency in Perth-shire, or somewhere like that. He went to the bar one more time. He tried charm, of which he had a great deal, and then bribery, and finally the threat of his own significant influence: but there was still no whisky to be had. Or anything else either. Then his companion tried a thick wad of the new Protectorate sterling, but it was no use: the bar had indeed been drunk quite dry.

We returned to our compartment, with the last of the whisky, and the conversation slowed altogether, and finally lapsed into complete silence. The smaller of the two was called Begg, and he soon drifted into what looked like an alcoholic coma. The toff – I think I heard him say that he was called Thomson, though there was at the time no reason for me to pay any attention – appeared to sleep. I slept too, for a little time: but when I woke, I could see that Thomson was watching me very carefully. He asked me why I was travelling to Edinburgh, and I told him. There was, after all, no reason not too. He laughed, and wished me luck. Again, he was watching me very carefully indeed. He said travel was very difficult, nobody was allowed to travel beyond the borders of their designated area of residence. Unless they had special permission.

I told him that I had that permission. For a fortnight I could go wherever I liked in Scotland, without the permission of the police or any of the other security agencies. The police would meet me in Edinburgh, and brief me on the background to my investigation; but then I would be on my own. That was the point at which the train stopped.

At first, there was a long silence in the darkened countryside. Ahead, day was just beginning to break over Edinburgh. Then we heard the cries and bellows of alarm from the side of the track. After that came the explosion. The train rocked, and from the distance came the kindly sound of cascading glass. There was another long silence across the darkened countryside.

The breaking of day seemed to accelerate, and the honourable members recovered their sobriety. We emptied the last of the whisky, straight from the gentle bottle, and Begg peered from the compartment