“Who lives in Daldour, Mr. Crawford?”
“There is but one name in Daldour – MacAskival. An inbred folk. In Daldour there is a little machair – that’s the sandy land of the Island – and the island people fertilize it with seaweed, and grow potatoes. Also they gather seaweed and sell it; in the season, a drifter puts close into shore, and the Daldour men bring out the seaweed in their lobster-boats and load it aboard, and it is sold on the mainland. On the day I visited Daldour, all the folk were at the beach with their carts, running straight into the surf to gather the tangle. Theirs is a poor life. The Daldour women weave a few decent rugs and sweaters. They speak a strange Gaelic, with some Norse words in it. For a month, one of our missionaries lived in Daldour, but he was half daft when he left. ‘Mr. Crawford, I have served my time among the Mau Mau,’ he said to me. And that though he was a Highlander and a Gaelic speaker.”
“Can you tell me anything about Lady MacAskival, Mr. Crawford?” Logan asked. But – after a slight discreet pause – Mr. Crawford could not. Logan, leaving him, went down to the North Pier to make inquiries after any boat that might carry him to Carnglass.
He had no luck. It would have to be MacBrayne’s steamer to Loch Boisdale in the morning, he thought, for already it was late afternoon. If the sea should be calm tomorrow, even a big motor-launch ought to be able to carry him from South Uist to Carnglass. After a stroll along the esplanade to the cathedral, Logan went back to his hotel at the other end of the town and had dinner. The trawlers were in the harbor now, unloading their catch upon the quay. But the fishermen were too busy to be bothered with eccentric Americans that wanted passage to Ultima Thule, Logan suspected. A light rain was coming down. Despite that, after dinner Logan put his oilskin cape over his shoulders, took up his stock, and – for lack of anything better to do – climbed the hill behind the town.
At the summit there was a strange building, Logan had noticed as soon as he had come out of Oban railway station: a circular roofless affair, like a ruined temple. This, according to the hotel people, was called McCaig’s Folly, and had been built long ago as an observation-tower, but never finished. Now, in the gloaming, Logan found himself close beside the Folly. The season being too early for tourists at Oban, the area round the Folly was deserted, so that Logan walked alone in the drizzle, thinking idly of the Old House of Fear and old Duncan MacAskival and his own solitary and work-laden life. A scrap from Scott came into his head:
“Sound, sound the clarion, fill the fife!
To all the sensual world proclaim
One crowded hour of glorious life
Is worth an age without a name.”
Was that the way it went? Even leading his battalion, Logan never had known that crowded hour. And as he thought of how some men are drunken with drink, and others drunken with work, he heard steps in the darkness behind him.
Looking over his shoulder, Logan made out a familiar figure, a few paces distant: the military gentleman. When Logan slackened pace, the military gentleman hesitated for a moment, and then strode on toward him. “Captain Gare!” the military gentleman called out, by way of introduction.
“Good evening, sir,” Logan said. Captain Gare, coming very close up to him with a swagger of sorts, looked down from his stork-height upon Logan. Flickering from side to side, the disconcertingly mobile little black bird-eyes never paused for more than a fraction of a second to meet Logan’s stare. The man struck his long stick against his own trousersleg. He opened his mouth, paused, gripped his stick more firmly, and then spoke in a reedy educated voice.
“Look here,” said Captain Gare. “I say – I … That is, cigarettes – yes, cigarettes …” There was an aroma of whiskey about Captain Gare, but Logan did not think he was drunk. Certainly Gare was exceedingly nervous, and he seemed disposed toward bullying.
“I’m sorry,” Logan told him mildly, “but I don’t have any cigarettes about me.”
“No, no.” Captain Gare, scowling, paused afresh, perhaps trying to take a new tack. “No, I don’t require cigarettes, not really. I don’t smoke – nor drink, either. I say: you’re an American, are you not?”
“Why should you think so, sir?”
“Don’t take offense,” said Captain Gare. “Are you ashamed of being an American? I’m not a chap people can take liberties with. You’re an American chap, I know. Your name is Logan.”
“I saw you at Todd’s Hotel,” Logan observed.
“Did you? Did you really? I travel a great deal, Mr. Logan: private means, you know. Yes, that’s it: I saw your name in the hotel register, and thought we might have something in common.”
“What might we have in common, Captain Gare?” Logan spoke evenly. Captain Gare swept his bird-eyes across Logan’s face again, seeming to gain heart. He slapped the stick against his leg, below the short mackintosh he wore.
“I say – don’t know India, I suppose? Never tried pigsticking? No, I suppose not; not you American chaps. True sport, you know. I was rather good.” He towered belligerently above Logan. “There’s nothing like steel. See here.” Captain Gare tugged at the head of his stick, and it came way from the wood. It was a sword-stick, two or three inches of blade showing above the cane. Logan had an amusing momentary vision of a fencing-match there in the rain, complete with cries of “touché!” Captain Gare, glowering upon him, rammed the blade back into its stick-scabbard.
“I take it that you know the world, Captain Gare,” Logan said, smiling slightly.
“Rather better than you do, I fancy, Logan.” It was clear that Captain Gare now felt himself master of the situation. “I say, we needn’t beat about the bush, eh? I’m told you’ve been at the pier inquiring after passage to Carnglass.”
“You’re an astute man, Captain Gare.”
“That’s as it may be.” Captain Gare’s swollen features bent toward Logan. “Look here: it’s quite pointless for you to go to Carnglass, you know – quite. I suppose you’re a solicitorchap, are you not?”
“That’s as it may be,” said Logan. “My father and grandfather were Writers to the Signet. You have an interest in Carnglass, Mr. – that is, Captain – Gare?”
“One of my friends has an interest there, sir. He knows Lady MacAskival very well. Handles her affairs, as a matter of fact. Saves her annoyance. She never welcomes callers, you understand.”
“I’m afraid my business is with Lady MacAskival herself.” Captain Gare edged still closer. “Lady MacAskival is not competent to transact business, Mr. Logan. I mean to say that she’s infirm. Quite old, you know. No taste for American trippers.”
“She has been in correspondence with my principal.”
“Nonsense!” Captain Gare brandished his stick. “Mean to say, that’s rubbish, you know. Lady MacAskival never writes. Infirm, a very elderly party. Come, now, Logan: I dare say you’ve gone to moderate expense in this fool’s errand. You’ll never see Carnglass. My friend is a liberal man, and very close to Lady MacAskival. Money’s little object to him or her. Suppose, now, on their behalf, I give you three hundred pounds, if you like? Simply by way of reimbursement, we may put it, Logan. Fair enough, eh? And then back to Brooklyn with you, eh?”
“You have the money in your pocket?” Logan inquired.
“Of course not.” Captain Gare gave him a supercilious smile. “A man doesn’t carry such sums on his person, you know. Come back into town with me, like a good chap, and I’ll write a cheque in your favor.”
“I do happen to carry such sums on my person, Captain Gare,” Logan told him.
The