“Have we lost it completely, Scoop?” he said to Ruairidh. “We seem to be volunteering for extra work.”
“Drama at Acharacle,” Ruairidh said. “Intrepid forestry workers save old township from destruction. Think of headlines and grandchildren at knee level. Yes, sonny, grandpa was there…”
“I’ll grab a water bottle for each of us,” George was pragmatic, “there’s a chance we’ll be away all night.”
Noel bustled past, running fingers through blond hair. “Never seen you lot so damn happy.”
Within ten minutes vehicles full of men were bumping along the single lane road that ran south from Polloch to join the main highway outside Strontian. Beams flashed and dipped in deepening gloom.
The instinct in people for either organisation or uniformity, had resulted in vehicles becoming exclusive to each group. Top earning fellers, the high caste of the community, occupied one vehicle; those of intermediate earning ability occupied another, the planting squad filled a third. In the vanguard rode Euan Mackinnon with two others ranked ‘ganger’, both experienced men who supervised a variety of discrete activities such as fencing and maintenance. They also provided the logistical support that organisations need in order to thrive. The men would look to them now for leadership.
Within each vehicle, the cliques sat in customary order, paired as much by habit as by inclination. The planting squad, being driven by Robbie, occupied the same spaces as they routinely tended to do each morning and evening. In the rear view mirror, Robbie watched the men converse; Noel with Alex, Roland with Guy, George with Ruairidh and Blue. Next the rear door, a taciturn Silas smiled congenially at nothing in particular. They were deliberately casual. Of the nine squad members, only Iain, the local lad, was absent.
Passing through Strontian, several lorry loads of local men employed by the Commission added themselves to the tail of the convoy. Night fell, a dark blue sky glowed with stars. Headlights dipped. A deliberate speed at the best pace of the slowest gave the line of vehicles a military flavour as it rumbled southwest.
Approaching Acharacle, a faint orange line was seen wavering across the black landscape and all faces turned in its direction. As they drew nearer, the slash of heath fire grew in size.
A little distance outside the township, whose windows shone brightly, the vehicles stopped in column and men disembarked. It was apparent that a serious threat existed. Outlying cottages were being evacuated: portable treasures were being carried hurriedly away. Women’s voices could be heard comforting children.