The Journey Home. Fiona Hood-Stewart

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      India moved to the window and looked through the frosty panes at the fresh snow covering the lawn and at the Dunbar oak, standing regal and alone.

      William, the first Dunbar to settle here, had planted the tree in 1280, and had made the pledge that had been handed down from generation to generation: While this oak tree stands, a Dunbar will always walk the land. India drew her eyes away sadly. If the property were sold, William’s vow would be broken.

      As she was about to leave, India caught sight of the small writing desk her mother had used for her private correspondence. An uncapped fountain pen lay on a sheet of half-written writing paper. She crossed the room and picked up what appeared to be an unfinished letter, realizing with a start that it was addressed to her.

      My dearest India,

      I am sending this off to you today, for I am most distressed. I am suffering from a dreadful dilemma and need to speak to you urgently. Please come to Dunbar as quickly as you can. I’d call, but I’m afraid I will be overheard. You need to be aware—

      The letter was cut short, as though Lady Elspeth had been interrupted. India frowned, glancing at the date. The letter had been written on the day of her mother’s death.

      “MIRA means star. This is a writer definitely shining.”

      —New York Times Bestselling Author

      Heather Graham

      The Journey Home

      Fiona Hood-Stewart

       www.mirabooks.co.uk

      To

      my darling boys,

      Sergio and Diego,

      and

      in loving memory of Mummy,

      my Lady Elspeth.

      For all she was, and always will be to us all.

      The Tears of Scotland

      Mourn, hapless Caledonia, mourn

      Thy banished peace, thy laurels torn.

      Thy sons, for valor long renowned,

      Lie slaughtered on their native ground;

      Thy hospitable roofs no more

      Invite the stranger to the door;

      In smoky ruins sunk they lie,

      The monuments of cruelty.

      The wretched owner sees, afar,

      His all become the prey of war;

      Bethinks him of his babes and wife,

      Then smites his breast, and curses life.

      Thy swains are famished on the rocks,

      Where once they fed their wanton flocks:

      Thy ravished virgins shriek in vain;

      Thy infants perish on the plain.

      What boots it, then, in every clime,

      Through the wide spreading waste of time,

      Thy martial glory, crowned with praise,

      Still shone with undiminished blaze?

      Thy towering spirit now is broke,

      Thy neck is bended to the yoke:

      What foreign arms could never quell,

      By civil rage and rancor fell.

      The rural pipe and merry lay

      No more shall cheer the happy day:

      No social scenes of gay delight

      Beguile the dreary winter night:

      No strains, but those of sorrow, flow,

      And nought be heard but sounds of woe,

      While the pale phantoms of the slain

      Glide nightly o’er the silent plain.

      O baneful cause, oh, fatal morn,

      Accursed to ages yet unborn.

      The sons against their fathers stood;

      The parent shed his children’s blood.

      Yet, when the rage of battle ceased,

      The victor’s soul was not appeased:

      The naked and forlorn must feel

      Devouring flames, and murdering steel.

      The pious mother doomed to death,

      Forsaken, wanders o’er the heath,

      The bleak wind whistles round her head,

      Her helpless orphans cry for bread,

      Bereft of shelter, food, and friend,

      She views the shades of night descend,

      And, stretched beneath the inclement skies,

      Weeps o’er her tender babes, and dies.

      Whilst the warm blood bedews my veins,

      And unimpaired remembrance reigns,

      Resentment of my country’s fate

      Within my filial breast shall beat;

      And, spite of her insulting foe,

      My sympathizing verse shall flow,

      “Mourn, hapless Caledonia, mourn

      Thy banished peace, thy laurels torn.”

      —Tobias Smollett, 1746

      This poem was written by the poet and satirist Tobias Smollett shortly after the Battle of Culloden, and expresses Scottish rage at the treatment of the vanquished Jacobites.

      ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

      Many thanks to all those wonderful friends who have been there all along the way. Emilio Lopez, for lending me my first laptop, David d’Albis, СКАЧАТЬ