Mackinnon jumped down from the vehicle and met Robbie at the office doorway. The ganger was anxious.
“We could be cut off here if the fire crosses the Strontian road behind us. The road along Loch Shielside is already blocked.”
“I know,” Mackinnon said. “I drove there an hour ago to see what it was like. Robbie, after you’ve checked the bothies, get your squad to clear all the fuel and any other flammable stuff well away from the houses. There are calor gas cylinders and God knows what else lying about the place. If that breeze doesn’t get up we have two hours yet. Enough time for a hot meal. None of your squad have hard hats, do they?”
“No,“ the ganger shook his head, “only the cutters and winchmen have them. I’ll put everything dangerous in the compound where we keep the coal.”
“Sunday. I’m still trying to make sure a full alert has actually gone out. God knows how long before the emergency response teams get here. We always thought that the bothies were too close to the wood, eh? Tell your boys to go up with you and fill a suitcase with their most valued things – one suitcase only, mind – and put them in the big storage hut. I’ll tell the others quartered here to do the same.”
Mackinnon eased past Robbie and went into the cabin with its two filing cabinets and desks. He regarded the hatched wall maps, stock decoration for Commission offices, and realised that they were being invalidated as he looked.
The logistics ganger was stationed at the telephone with Iain, the local lad, as his runner. The teenager had been awakened much earlier by an anxious father’s “You’ll need to get up, son, Mackinnon phoned. He’s coming to collect you. Something about a fire near Polloch.”
“Everything ok? And no calls?” Mackinnon queried. “Now, Iain, you’d better phone your Dad and tell him where you are.”
Mackinnon went back outside where two groups now stood, the planting squad having already moved away with Robbie to choose what little they could save. He selected six men. They included two cutters, each a large physical presence, and the old hand who was janitor at the cantonment, placing a very experienced woodsman in charge. They hurried off to rig up a pump.
Polloch being isolated, the Commission had been obliged to create a self sustaining environment. The bothies were traditional, designed for coal fire heating. A generator plant had been installed to provide community lighting and a large gravity water tank had been erected beside the once fiesty river that carried run-off from the hill.
But the river had become a mere trickle because of the lengthy dry spell, Mackinnon was informed by field telephone. The water tank, despite its limited capacity, would have to be their primary source of water.
“Ok,” Mackinnon ordered, “rig everything up but don’t pump any water. Save it until we really need it. Then have your breakfast. Afterwards you can clear away from around the bothies anything that will burn.” He put the field telephone back into his pocket and felt a hot puff of breeze on one cheek.