Laying the Ghost: A Return to Culloden

By Caít Oliver

A husbands obsession with historic reenactments threatens to tear his small family apart when they purchase an old house that may be haunted. A jealous wife and a young son with second sight complicate matters as the ghost of a young soldier, a survivor of the Battle of Culloden, Scotlands last stand against the English, inhabits their life. His insistence that a bloodied relic in their possession be returned to the soil of Scotland wreaks havoc upon their world. An unexpected brush with death, the exposure of a beloved leader as a fraud, and a view into the reality of history puts things into rightful perspective.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Feb 22, 2013
• ISBN: 9781481707794

Caít Oliver

A floral designer and special event producer, a musician and teacher, an actress and a writer, Cait Oliver has been fortunate to have lived in four countries, 10 states and 17 cities. She’s looked intently, listened carefully, and learned from it all. Drama, music, art, gardens, animals, and books are her passions, Dublin, Ireland, and Annapolis, Maryland, are her “heart places.” Ms. Oliver currently lives in the Blue Ridge Mountains with her adorable Shih Tzu, Taffy.

Book preview

AuthorHouse™

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.authorhouse.com

Phone: [phone]

© 2013 by Cait Oliver. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 02/15/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4817-0781-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4817-0780-0 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4817-0779-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013900837

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Acknowledgments

Culloden

Prologue

Chapter One   Dupont Dilemma

Chapter Two   A Move to Occoquan

Chapter Three   The Bloodred Tartan

Chapter Four   Touch Not the Cat, Bot a Glove

Chapter Five   Single Malt Scotch

Chapter Six   O’Carolyn, the Ghost of Roscommon

Chapter Seven   Saint Francis and the Cockatiel

Chapter Eight   Sweet Deirdre of the Sorrows

Chapter Nine   MacKenzie

Chapter Ten   The Beer Prayer

Chapter Eleven   Mary

Chapter Twelve   The Waterford Festival

Chapter Thirteen   A Reenactment Wedding

Chapter Fourteen   O Positive

Chapter Fifteen   Spirits of Halloween

Chapter Sixteen   A Revelation

Chapter Seventeen   The Transparent Truth

Chapter Eighteen   A Grave Matter

Chapter Nineteen   A Scottish Surprise

Chapter Twenty   A Voice from the Past

Chapter Twenty One   The Salute to Norman Rockwell

Chapter Twenty Two   The Scottish Walk

Chapter Twenty Three   The Snake and the Scotsman

Chapter Twenty Four   Auld Lange Syne

Chapter Twenty Five   Black Hugh’s Request

Chapter Twenty Six   The Soil of Alba

Epilogue

The Author gratefully acknowledges the kind permission for the use of these works by the artists.

The Pub Song

Miles Wootton

Kobalt Music Company

Bread and Fishes

Alan A. Bell

Tamlyn Music Company

Culloden

Stuart McFarlane

In remembrance of my favorite author and dear friend, Agnes Sligh Turnbull, whose books full of beauty and grace inspired my entire life, and whose friendship was the polished gemstone in the necklace of my days.

Acknowledgments

F irst and foremost, I want to thank Bill and Priscilla Mitchell, my dear friends, who listened and believed in me for thirty five years.

For the entire McGlynn family, my dear Dublin friends, who showed me unfailing love and hospitality, and made me one of their own, I thank you with all of my heart. We will all remember Paschal Bermingham, who is sadly gone from us, but still in our hearts… who loved everyone and was loved in return. Slainté!

For my brothers: Russell, Matt and Tim and their families, my thanks for everything.

For my amazing Mom, Marjorie Auten, from whom, with just a little help from God, I received my gift; and her wonderful Harry, a sweetheart, I give my heartfelt appreciation and love.

Much love to my thoughtful husband, Richard Jerome, who was the first to read this novel.

Many thanks go to Father, who clearly demonstrated the infinite enjoyment of an escape into a good story, this reader salutes you.

My cheerleaders, Geri Garnett, and Edith Michael, . . . you’re the best!

And lastly, for Ken, who understood.

Some readers may find themselves perplexed by the spellings, words and expressions peculiar to Ireland and Scotland. I have chosen to be as accurate as possible, even to the old world remarks and comments made by the reenacters. Also the F word is considered much milder over there than here.

CULLODEN

Stuart McFarlane

I

Well now, Charlie, look on this,

A fine day’s work indeed.

But no, you can’t, of course,

for you have fled the field.

On the field the dead and dying

Are heaped now high in the mud.

They, who have paid for your lying,

Who paid for it with their blood.

Who gathered here just hours ago,

just hours ago this day.

And how could they ever know

It would end like this, end this way?

Who fell for your charm, fell for your lies,

Fell here upon this brutal field,

Now only their despairing cries

Their senseless sacrifice revealed.

Who fought in the rain, died in the rain,

Common man and nobility,

Never to see their wives again,

An act of heroic futility.

II

And as if this dreadful sight

was not enough, as if this wouldn’t do,

the carnage went on through the night,

before butcher Cumberland was through.

Wounded, bayoneted where they lay,

their screams a torment to the very air.

To the redcoats, merely ‘orders of the day,’

But they knew, they knew it wasn’t fair.

And to the villages the killers came

In a frenzy, in a savage slaughter,

Women, children, cruelly slain,

a mother, son, a daughter.

And in this destruction, in this vile night,

Your absurd creation was born-

So today on plates and mugs might

We see your romantic image adorned.

On tartan towels, on shortbread tins

And all along the whisky trails,

Your legend filters down the glens,

A fruity blend of unlikely tales.

III

But on Culloden the blood will never dry,

It runs bright red, it soaks the ground.

And, at night, they say, you’ll hear a cry,

a far off, unearthly sound.

At midnight, maybe, will you recoil,

From an icy wailing, cold and shrill,

for, though, now buried deep in soil,

their spirits roam the moor still.

Roam the moor still, clansman and chief,

who, believing in you, could not know,

as well as the pretender, you were a thief

sent to rob them of their souls.

And for them today is ‘forty-six’,

Never can they leave this field,

It will never be right, never be fixed,

Never will the wounds be healed.

Again they curse Cumberland, again,

-his black deeds still they recall-

But remembering, now, the mud and the rain,

Curse you, bonnie prince, most of all.

Prologue

S he shivered in surprise and terror as the ancient ghost fingered his kilt nervously. Slowly, joints creaking, he advanced. His voice, chains dragging across stones, rasped at her. The Blood! The blood must return to Culloden Moor! It was shed for Scotland. And for Bonnie Prince Charlie! It must be restored to the rightful place-the soil of Alba! He raised his arm to shake a gnarled transparent finger in her face. Take it back, mistress, I beg of you… take it back!" His craggy visage froze as they heard wheels crunch in the drive. She turned and the specter vanished.

Chapter One

Dupont Dilemma

T he watery winter sun shone in a weak wash over Dupont Circle as Sassy Cameron glanced out at the sodden sidewalks, people scurrying through a tenuous mist of snow. She turned from the bedroom window and hurled a pillow at her husband, snoring loudly through an open mouth.

He grunted in annoyance fumbling for his glasses in a half stupor. What the hell-.

"Get up, lazybones, it’s a gorgeous day for our ride in the country! How about a nice Bloody Mary? The coffee’s on." She pulled on her jade green robe and fluffed her hair.

Damn it Sass, I no more feel like a ride out to Timbuktu today-isn’t it supposed to snow or something?-than flying to the moon. Ye gods! My head… She watched as he struggled to sit up.

"That must have been some wingding last night. You Bobby Burns Society people sure know how to honor his birthday, I’ll give you that."

Well, it was great, but how could you tell… He adjusted his tortoiseshell frames on his bleary eyed face, the heavy eyebrows every which way like mashed spiders, breath reeking of stale cigars and old whiskey.

How could I tell? Your fancy ass dress shirt is draped over my work table like a shroud-for which I could cheerfully kill you, one shoe is in the living room with the toe peeping out from under the sofa, your hose are scattered from here to the kitchen and your oh-so-holy Cameron kilt- Sassy made the sign of the cross.

"Never mind, Sass, I get the picture. Listen, I would like that bloody Mary. Perhaps a hair of the dog will help."

At the mention of the word dog their thirteen year old beagle, Deirdre, unwound herself from the bedclothes and joyously tongued Robert’s face.

"No no no, you stupid dog, not now…"

There’s no need to bitch at the dog just because you’re hung over, Robert. She won’t understand and she loves you. Sassy reached across her husband to caress the elderly dog.

Okay, so I don’t mean to be an old grouch. Good girl. Good old dog. Robert patted the animal’s head.

Sassy padded out of the bedroom, barefooted, and grinned back at her husband, Hang on babe, my magic elixir will fix your head in nothing flat!

In a few minutes she returned with a tray laden with cream cheese and lox, bagels and coffee, the Sunday paper and a pitcher. By that time Robert was a bit more composed and a trifle sheepish. He was sitting up amongst the numerous shams and bed pillows that he hated and complained about so much. Sassy shook out the duvet setting the tray on a skirted table, the sharp aroma of the coffee wafting throughout the air. She crawled into bed, arranged the covers and handed him his drink.

They sipped silently while Sassy perused the real estate section and Robert searched the classifieds.

He was knocking back his red hot Bloody Mary when Sassy looked up suddenly.

"Now here is a nice looking house in Occoquan, honey. That wouldn’t be too far out of the district. Let’s go look at it. I like the lines and the realty office has Sunday hours."

Sassy glanced over at her husband with a bright expectant face. He was a handsome man in his early forties with thick, dark hair and a full mustache. His eyes were deep brown and on this particular morning, bloodshot. He frowned over his paper at her.

"Sass, any place out of northwest is too far to commute for me. I hate to commute. I like to Metro. This move to the country is your idea, your baby. It’s all for Robby and for you as well." He frowned.

There is absolutely nothing wrong with raising a child in Washington, as I’ve told you before. I was brought up in D.C. and I turned out all right. He sat up straighter, rattling his section of the paper at her. And besides, what’s wrong with Fairfax? Why do we have to go down ninety-five? Pure hell during rush. Herndon would be much better or Centerville, even. Think of Manassas…

Sassy sighed. Audibly.

What makes you think sixty-six is any picnic, Bobbie, me boy? Look honey, I know you turned out okay, she said in what she thought was a reasonable tone, but that was before this big drug thing, before AIDS, before so much sexual molestation and before so many children had been kidnapped.

She shuddered.

I don’t want my son’s face on a milk carton reading ‘Have you seen me?’ Please, Robert, let’s do go look. You promised, and we’ve been over this before. You’ll love the country, too. Think of the room you could have for a workshop to do all your hobbies, all your costume making for your reenactment activities, your leatherworking, your gun smithing, all your stuff, . . . oh and the beauty of the country, honey; the spring flowers, the summer apple trees—‘Don’t sit under the apple tree with anyone else but me-’ the autumn leaves-

Which have to be raked and burned- He made The Face.

And the bare trees in the winter, Robert, and virgin snow without city footprints and roaring fires in our own fireplace… Oh honey, please…

Her face pleading for her, she set down her coffee looking over at him.

He leaned over kissing her tenderly on the tip of her turned up nose. How he loved her he often told her, calling her his fey child.

They had married eight years before when he was a set in his ways bachelor of thirty-six. She was seven years younger and full of a whimsical charm and wonder which won his crusty old CPA’s heart.

She felt as if it was a true case of the engineer and the artist; she being an interior designer and a part time dealer in antiques; his career was the dry bones world of accounting. She hoped it had proven to be a good match; they balanced one another, or rather, he anchored her and she elevated him.

And so on that snowy morning in late January, they found themselves driving south of Washington to seek the perfect country home. Little Robby, excited and vocal, chattered all the way. He played with the dog, turning her patient old head this way and that to look at the sights till she tired and resisted. With a canine sigh, she jumped into the front seat to nestle protected, with Sassy.

Poor old baby dog! Is Robby bugging you to death?

Deardear isn’t a baby dog, Mom. Uncle Russell says she’s old!

I know, Robby m ‘lad, but she was my baby before you and she just hears the words as an endearment.

His anxious little face leaned towards the front seat.

What’s an in dear mint, Mom?

She reached to hold his pudgy hand as her small son wrinkled his pug nose.

Oh sweetie, it just means loving words, sweet talk.

Yeah, mushy stuff.

"I like mushy stuff, Robchen, and so does the puppyupper; and the kitties, and even your daddy," she explained with a sideways glance at her husband, who was intent on his driving, taking extra care in the slick snow.

Speaking of mints, Mom, could I have some peppermint gum from your purse, prettyplease?

Me too, Sass. A tad too much garlic in the haggis last night, plus the forty two year old single malt… my mouth is the bottom of a bird cage right now. Robert was rather a delicate shade of green.

Sassy dug into her voluminous red handbag (which held all but the kitchen sink), to hand each of them a stick of gum. As the pleasant scent of peppermint permeated the car, she announced with a chuckle, I’d say a bird cage in Gilroy, California, honey.

What’s Gilroycalifornia, Mom?

The garlic capital of the world, Robby m’lad. Your daddy is pheeew!

Sort of a deathbreath, Dad?

Yes, Robby, deathbreath for certain.

Sassy glanced at her husband, inquiring brightly, Well, handsomest of all Bobs, what did you find in the classifieds today?

Not much in the way of merchandise for the Rev War or F. and I. War; but, I did notice that there is to be a militaria show at the National Guard Armory in Annapolis next weekend and I-

Oh no! Robby cried in dismay. Sassy jerked around to face him. The child pointed to his mouth with a face of tragic intensity. My gum-it fell in!

Sassy laughed, and handed her indignant son another stick. He grinned his thanks and was quiet once more.

Of course the militaria show was on a weekend, Sassy thought to herself. Everything to do with historic reenacting-the events, shows, meetings, matches-everything was on a weekend. She understood why with everyone working. But her husband was so involved with all of it that he was never home on a weekend. This one was rare… and actually it was only because he wanted to attend the Bobby Burns Birthday Bash that he wasn’t away in Pennsylvania this very day. Sassy was glad he enjoyed his hobby so much but, every weekend was too much to her way of thinking. Robby was growing up so fast. He needed more of his father’s attention.

Robert was serious by nature and his job was a left side of the brain, boring one. He lived for his weekends. To wear an elaborate costume, to fire black powder muskets, to brandish swords and quaff ale from leather tankards; in effect to be for a little while a brave and daring soldier of another era was the stuff to fire his imagination and set his spirit free! She knew he loved every aspect of an event-the planning meetings, the period food and drink to prepare, the costumes to make (with all the detailing museum perfect), the weapons to buy or build, the choreography of the battles, the actual trip to an old site, the setting up of the camp and the rousing music of the time period-it was exhilarating.

Being a loner by nature and rather shy, the friendly camaraderie and cheerful banter of his fellow reenacters made him feel more of a team player than anything before in his life. He was not good at sports in school; he’d felt a bit of a square. But now, late in life, he enjoyed this new popularity, and was proud and happy about his contribution to his various units. He was knowledgeable, enthusiastic, and conscientious in carrying out his assigned duties and shared freely his arcane bits of wisdom.

Sassy was thrilled that her husband was well liked and a super recruiter for the five units in which he so wholeheartedly participated. He reenacted many different time periods: the St. Marie’s Citty Militia, a seventeenth century group based in historic St. Mary’s City, Maryland; a Revolutionary War unit of Scottish Highlanders; Montgomery’s 77th Foote, they were also involved in the French and Indian War Games. He played Civil War soldier with an Alexandria unit, and was involved with World Wars One and Two. He even toyed a bit with the Society for Creative Anachronisms until Sassy put her foot down.

The man is an addict, a reenactment junkie lost in a time warp somewhere! Sassy complained once to a friend in a fit of pique. She waved her hands impatiently, he has no sense of the real world-it’s all cowboys and Indians, cops and robbers, play play play! I get so exasperated sometimes… He’s never home… and when he is, he’s in the spare room ‘building’ a costume or cleaning a gun of some kind… or on the phone with another history nut arguing over the authenticity of some minor detail-no one dares to be Farb! Then she knocked over her wineglass, slopping her drink on the table.

Farb? Her friend Mary Lynn, soft spoken and southern, questioned as she sipped her wine while Sassy mopped up the mess and vented.

Oh gee, it means… well, for example using a color or a fabric that would be all wrong for the time period… like polyester for the War between the States, or white for a bridal dress during the English Civil War. She shook her head. It’s a real disgrace to a true history buff to be wrong like that. You should hear the derisive criticism, the ones who are wrong are tagged ‘polyester patriots.’ Anyway, M L, I miss Robert so much when he is gone, but when he’s home it’s almost as bad. I’m living with a real live G.I. Joe doll, dressed up in a kilt! It drives me nuts! She bit into her sandwich and her lip at the same time tasting the metallic flavor of blood mixed with her chicken salad.

"But, Sassy, they do look so sexy with their legs showing like that. Hey, you can tell me-what is really worn under those kilts?" Mary Lynn’s big blue eyes looked so innocent but her smile was naughty as she asked the age old question.

Sassy grinned impishly as she dabbed at her mouth with the linen napkin. "Why nothing is worn, M L, everything is in perfect working order! She laughed, And as any old Scot will tell you-’Gie us your hand, Miss and well see!’"

Mary Lynn smiled. Well, sugar, I sure did like all those kilts at your wedding… a lot of very nice legs.

"Yes, that was nice… And I’m sure all the female reenacters who play camp followers enjoy seeing the men dressed like that! I think that’s why so many young single women go in for the hobby. And the costumes they wear- She sputtered. Think of what they get to show. You can just bet the guys aren’t adverse to all that T and A. Did you know that in the seventeenth century it was immoral to show your elbows but you could proudly display your bosom to all and sundry-and with those tight stays, your boobs were up under your chin."

Yes Ma’am, tits on a Ritz! Mary Lynn chortled.

Later on, Sassy mused on her balcony as she tended her container garden. Yes, she was fed up with Robert’s hobby, his obsession. Sassy was glad he was so interested in something-her gripe was the amount of time spent on it. Funny, she thought, how some women complain about being sports widows, but most of the time their husbands were at home in front of the TV. Sassy would love to see Robert lying on the floor of their small living room with his son, watching a game. She imagined herself bringing in a tray of pretzels and beer, chips and soda, the dog at her heels. She could almost hear the laughter and feel the warmth of a loving family unit. She hoped with all her heart that a move to the country would prompt such a change. She would work hard to make an old house cozy and comfortable, a place where friends and neighbors would feel free to drop in, unlike their posh Dupont Circle address where none of her neighbors would stop by without a preliminary phone call, ever. Time in her yuppie world was too tight, restricted, measured in quarter hours, mapped out in appointment dairies.

She had been so lost in thought that Robert had already reached the turn off for Occoquan and slowed the black BMW. Sassy picked up the paper and glanced at him.

Okay honey, the office should be right here on the main drag. Just turn left onto this road. We should see a white sign.

She turned to her son. Robby, are you buttoned up tight now that we are getting out of the car? Pull on your cap too, my sweet, it is cold!

Ha ha, I know what that is Mom!

What? Sassy was puzzled.

My sweet.’ It’s an endearment!

Right you are, my smart son. You must get your brains from my side of the family. Anyway, bundle up. There’s the sign. We’re here. Do you want to take Deirdre’s leash? I’ll hook her up.

Robert stopped the car pulling into a space.

Oh boy, Deardear, you can come with me! Robby shouted with glee. The dog scrambled over the seat wagging her tail violently, knocking off Robert’s glasses and tearing the newspaper.

Robert James Cameron, will you kindly pipe down!

Honey, mind your daddy… . he’s not himself today. And hold on very tight to the puppy dog.

She adjusted his coat collar, smiling at her excited son.

They entered the real estate office where a chic young woman greeted them. Sassy inquired about the house in the paper. The receptionist left them to check on it so she sat down next to Robby to help him unbutton his coat.

Settled down to wait, she lovingly stroked Deirdre’s head. On impulse Robby picked up a local housing guide. Here, Mom-a book of houses. Read it, read it! He was so animated that his mother smiled indulgently and took the magazine.

Robert was pacing the floor, then impatiently drumming his fingertips on the counter. With mounting interest his wife thumbed through the booklet. Suddenly she stopped. Her house! The home of her dreams. Right here. Now. She jumped up and grabbed her husband’s arm. "Robert, look! This is it! The house! Omigod, I can’t believe it. It’s like a dream come true. All white with black shutters and the gingerbread-oh honey I love this house-it speaks to me-it sings to me! Oh, oh, it’s perfect. And right in our price range! Oh, is is perfect." She almost pranced her delight.

At that very moment the receptionist returned flanked by very elegant lady in her fifties.

Hello, the beautifully coiffed sales agent smiled warmly, extending her hand, "I’m Emma Carter. I understand that you’re interested in the home featured in today’s advertisement. It’s a lovely old home