By midday the light breeze had grown warm in the sun.
The fire continued to advance and broaden its front. North of the road a dark pall of smoke hung over a land heavily clothed in spruce and pine. Below this gloomy canopy, a red gleam of fire slashed across the forest.
Senior foresters who had some hours before given instructions to thirty pairs of woodsmen, now supervised a long row of men felling at lengthy intervals along the roadside. A heavy buzz of chainsaws vibrated the air. Mackinnon drew Rattray aside.
“I’m certain that this fire was no accident,” he said, “and I’ve already reported arson to the police.” Careful not to overburden the argument supporting fireraising Mackinnon made no mention of Munro’s fatal accident when speaking of Silas as the likely culprit.
Rattray listened intently to the reasons underlying Mackinnon’s certainty of fireraising. “It may not be your Silas,” Rattray cautioned. “Whoever is responsible needed to travel quietly. He would surely not use a motorbike in the early morning and he would not be slogging along Loch Shielside carrying jerrycans of petrol. Does this man, Silas, have a bicycle?”
“We had an isolated patch flare up on the moor shortly before. Silas was planting nearest and he was first to report it, eh?”
“Maybe so,” Rattray said, “maybe it is him. You’ll need a lot more than that, though. But does he have a bicycle?”
“None of them have a bicycle,” Mackinnon said slowly. “But there used to be an old one kicking around Polloch. I must find out what happened to it.”
Rattray turned away, “We’ll talk on this later, Mac.”
The farmer came cautiously towards them, very aware of the proximity of felling operations. He was regarded as likely to be the only victim of fire. A practical man, he also knew that only rain could save his property, and that there was no hope of the dry spell ending any time soon.
“The fire must be at least a mile away,” he said. “What a bloody job I had to see to the beasts, get them away from pasture. Anyway, it’s done. They are clear and off to crofts. So is the furniture. We were up all night. If the fire had been closer I’d have been in terrible trouble. Is that the firebreak I was hearing about?”
Mackinnon nodded. “You can see the slope immediately below the road is very easy, very gentle, along this stretch and it’s here that the head of the fire should hit first, far as we can tell. There will be plenty of men to protect your farm. We can’t get at the fire in this density of wood. It’s a great pity your house is on the low side of the road.”
“I’m going to lose it, I know,” the farmer said. “The wife is inconsolable, but what can I do? The only water at the farm comes out of a tap. For two weeks now I’ve been taking the livestock down to Loch Doilet for a daily drink. With no reservoir of water around the place, the local fire brigade can’t do anything for me.” He shrugged and walked slowly to his car.
Chainsaws buzzed intermittently as brash was cut away from felled trees and snedded lengths of trunk manoeuvred with handspikes, picaroons, to lie parallel to the roadway, forming a revetment to barricade fire. As they worked, a sharp stink of wood smoke pervaded clothing and sneaked into the vehicles parked at distance from the activity.
In Strontian, the planting squad lounged in bright sunshine outside the Community Centre. Roland and Guy had used pooled cash at the local supermarket immediately after breakfast and distributed the purchases: soap and shampoo, toothbrushes and toothpaste, shaving gear, Irn Bru, biscuits, paperback novels.
Their laundry arrived, crisply ironed and folded in a huge wicker basket. The basket was carried into the hall and the heavy mood lightened. They gathered around. Roland knelt and inhaled the fresh odour of laundered clothing. “Would you believe it,” he looked up at the others. “The hotel used a conditioner that smells of pine.”
“I’m beginning to feel quite pampered,” Alex said, selecting his clothes from the pile. “Like having my very own batman. Or my personal valet? Reminds me of Carruthers, my fag at Wellington, or was it Sandhurst?”
“Bugger off, Randy,” Noel responded pleasantly.
Roland’s voice was muffled by the shirt he held to his nose. “My jeans, have been ironed, darlings, can one believe it? With sharp creases. In a pair of designer jeans? In what century are these hotel people living?”
Little islands of clothing grew at each sleeping location. Noel laid fresh laundry on his sleeping bag which was neatly laid out, a suitcase resting on its lower half. It gave the striking impression of an army cot laid out for inspection.
“Can we find elegance in insulation?” Roland questioned, looking up from the slop chest. “Can we? I challenge you all.”
“No problem,” Alex said. “I guarantee to dress dapper. Stylish, me.”
“And me,” Noel added, with a good natured charge towards the heap of secondhand clothing donated by the charitable folk of Strontian.
Noel and Alex expanded in layers of clothing. The others did likewise, everyone using the slop chest. The slimly built; Noel, Ruairidh, George, and Blue, came off best. Alex grew into a Michelin Man, Guy a smaller version. Silas remained curiously anonymous. A gay Roland pirouetted farcically with colours flowing in his selected garments, his outermost covering a sleeveless golfing pullover of purple and yellow diamonds.
“I am a harlequin,” he said. “Treat me with respect.”
The Argyll van returned, on this occasion with soup and sandwiches. The men ate and waited. At two thirty the ganger drove up to the Community Centre with Iain.
“Time to go, boys!” he shouted from the landrover, his elbow leaning on a sill of the open window, smiling at the bulky figures that emerged from the Hall and stuffed themselves into the vehicle. The ganger kept a hand on the brake as he watched a car approach.
A white Volkswagen drew in beside him and an alert young man got out, lean and leggy, all forward motion and eagerness. He spoke with an easy familiarity as he approached.
“Hi there,” the young man said, bending towards the ganger and glancing around as if memorising this encounter, “mind if I tag along?”
“Tag along? Why? Who are you?” Robbie queried, scrutinising a childish face and noticing a much older man, shadowy in the driving seat of the People’s Car. It occurred to the ganger that the brash youth might not yet be old enough to sit a driving test.
“Press,” Baby-face said, “Daily Whatsit, reporting the planet twenty four seven.”
“Daily what?”
“Daily News, lousy title, most people don’t bother asking. Okay if we follow you? I take it you guys are off to the fire.”
“Well, I’m not going to stop you,” Robbie said, aware of curiosity from the squad now packing behind him in the rear of the long Commission vehicle. He eased off the brake, and the landrover edged forward.
“Do you happen to know a Mr. Rattray, where he is?” Baby-face asked hurriedly.
“Yes and no, and that’s two questions too many,” Robbie said abruptly and drove off.
Baby-face dived into the Volkswagen which quickly closed up on the landrover and tailgated the Commission vehicle out of Strontian as it headed towards the great black cloud disfiguring a blue sky. From the front passenger seat of the VW, Baby-face eyed the stain of darkness.
“Hey,” he said to the older man driving, “this could be really big. I may not need the usual dosage of hyperbole.”
His senior by decades, the photographer was concentrated on a narrow road twisting ahead.
“You never were one for litotes,” he said.