The gangers quickly organised their charges into two groups, each man equipped with a long-handled beater in the form of a flap of vulcanised rubber attached to a rough wooden shaft, these having been transported by lorry. Their torches flashing, the gangers led the men in two extended ranks off the road towards an unbroken line of flame. A crackling growl rose and fell as bushes or high vegetation erupted.
The night sky was clear. Smoke drifted across a threequarter moon. Fire illuminated the ground and dulled the stars. Both ranks of men advanced into the acrid smell of burning heather, beaters resting on their shoulders. Expressionless faces gleamed in a red glow.
“Stay close to each other,” the gangers instructed, “watch your footing. Meet the fire together. Make sure you beat it out, no good if it flares up behind you.” With these and other exhortations to take care, the second rank saw those in front as black figures on a leaping backdrop of flame.
“The fire is going along the ground ahead of what you see burning,” the gangers were shouting, “so be careful. Don’t get too close, your beaters have long handles. Keep your distance.”
The planting squad advanced up to the leaping flames. Furiously, part of a rank of men dimly visible in smoking moonlight, they began to beat at the flaring vegetation.
The fire burned unevenly. Where heather clumps or dwarf oak blazed, the flames were attacked by several beaters while thin heathery ground cover burned modestly nearby, requiring little effort to bludgeon the bright ripples of flame into darkness.
In the night, cohesion was soon lost as the double ranks merged into one straggling line. Local residents extended the frontage of fire fighting effort to one of several hundred metres.
George discovered Roland beside him as together they beat steadily at burning bushes, then found that Silas and Noel had joined them. From time to time one would stumble, losing footing in broken ground. Each time another’s hand would restore balance. There was no speech. Blue and Robbie materialised from darkness, recognised in the glow of fire. They wielded their beaters in a tight group. Sparks showered around.
Guy and Ruairidh had similarly teamed with locals and a fencing squad at an area where flame was sweeping up steeply rising ground. There the men succeeded in breaching the soaring front of fire, then extinguishing the flames in a sweat soaked effort ten metres from the pebble dashed wall of a bungalow on the township’s fringe.
Sharp smoke filled nostrils and scratched in mouths and throats. Eyes smarted and watered. Hot air rasped on dry skin. Occasional shouts of warning penetrated the harsh sounds of burning. Each man wielded his beater, gasping in the heat, conscious of light shining from windows not far behind.
Two hours passed, and it was done. A bitter taste of burned heath filled their mouths. Local men began to patrol the area and beat out any still glowing embers. Soon, any orange light came only through curtained windows. The men assembled at the Commission vehicles and leaned against their beaters, many coughing, with patches of palm skinned by rough wooden handles. There they drank from plastic bottles of water gangers were passing around.
Ruairidh swigged from the water bottle he had carried in his pocket and passed the bottle to Guy, standing nearest him. George and Blue were at the landrover, where their bottles were also going from hand to hand. A ganger arrived with more water and the clustered squad drank again.
Robbie called them to gather to him and quickly assured himself that all were present. From darkness came the sound of other rolls being called. Mackinnon joined them.
“Everyone here?”
“They’re all here,” the ganger replied, “in fierce need of a wash.”
“Okay,” Mackinnon said, “a good effort. Stow your beaters in the lorry and let’s get home, eh?”
It was nearing midnight when they returned to Polloch. No injuries had been suffered. One garden had lost a tangle of rhododendron to the fire, but that had been Acharacle’s only casualty.
First to enter the bothy, Blue pulled off his boots and hung his anorak on a hook inside the door. He went along the corridor to the living room and switched on the light. Red-eyed from heat and smoke, he contemplated a portion of uneaten dinner on the plate he had deserted. Ruairidh followed him into the living room, observed, and was sceptical.
“Come on, you’re not going to eat that.”
“Just watch me,” Blue said and tucked into a cold potato on which he had smeared some greasy mince. Gobbets detached from his fork and became attached to strands of beard.
“Jesus wept,” Ruairidh said.
Vigorous splashing was heard through the open door of a bathroom next to the kitchen. George appeared, gingerly towelling his head and face as Blue continued to eat. Ruairidh remembered the night’s events. “Would you believe I found myself working at the fire with tattooed wonderboy? I have to say, he put in a good shift.”
“You’re talking about Guy?” Blue glanced towards George who draped his towel over a chair and lifted a chin in surprise. Ruairidh’s dislike of Guy had been visceral.
“Guy is all right,” George said abruptly.
“He’s not overjoyed with Robbie giving you the best ground,” Ruairidh said.
“You can hardly blame Guy for that,” George grunted. “Bonus earnings took a hit.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Ruairidh conceded grudgingly. “I have to admit he put in a big effort. It’s been some night. Anyway, I’m off to bed.”
Throughout the hamlet lights were being switched off and tired men were embracing sleep. Routines of felling, planting, and tensioning of forestry fences would resume in the morning.
Silas lay awake for some time. That simple fire on the moor had shown a surprising aggression. He found himself exhilarated, the more so by what he knew was to come.