Exile of Argus MacGuire

“Take one more step and I’ll blow ya to Kingdom come.” A red-bearded man dressed in a kilt with blue tartar held a musket aimed at some discarded crates a few feet from where I had landed my skiff. Using an eighteen-horse powered outboard motor, I navigated the choppy waters from the port of Tagharry to this unnamed jutting pile of rocks a few kilometers west of Deasker Island in the northern Atlantic Ocean.

Standing with my hands in the air, not daring to move a muscle, the large man spoke again, “Don; t’ink I won’ pull the triggah. The be one land agent who won’ be goin’ back. His remains are scattered in infantesimal pieces all ‘long the shore.”

Daring to glance over at the crates, I noticed that the crates were stuffed with several sticks of dynamite. One musket shot would send me to oblivion.

“Are ya Angus MacGuire?” I asked, keeping my hands in the air. The tide was rolling in splashes and waves over my hiking boots.

“Aye.” He growled. I heard his thumb pull back the hammer of his musket. “And who might ye be?”

“Baron Treeste.” I tried not to shiver, but the wind and sea water chilled me to the bone.

“Ah, you be a baron?” He smile and peered through the sight of his rifle. I was sure he was going to pull the trigger which would be the last sound I would hear in this world.

“No, no. It’s my name.” I nodded.

“Ya parents was tryin’ to be funny, eh?”

“I doubt it, but they wanted to give me that aire of a gentleman.” I forced a smile.

“So, tell me Baron, whacha be doin’ on me island?” His thumb gently put the hammer back in place. He shouldered his rifle and squinted at me through one eye.

“I wanted to talk to ya.” I felt safe taking another step toward the large Scotsman.

“What ‘bout? I it da weather ye be wishin’ to talk ‘bout.” His laugh erupted from his well-padded belly, “It sucks it does. Even worse that London. I can tell by ya accent, that’s where you be from.”

“Correct.” I nodded.

“I know a Londoner when I hears him speak.” He shook his head.

“How long have you been on this island?” I asked as I drew near.

“Goin’ on seven years.” He put his thumb to this thickly bearded chin,

“What was the sentence?”

“Angus MacGuire, you need to get as far away from London as ya cun.” He began walking toward the only man-made structure on this barren rock. “I will invite ya to me castle.”

“Thank you.” I nodded.

“But if ya piss me off, I be tossin’ ya into the drink for the creatures of the deep to gnaw ya bones.” He leaned his musket up against the shabby cabin near the door. “Them barristers sent me here as a punishment. Like Napoleon. This mate is my Elba.”

“When does you exile end?” I asked.

“Ain’t no end.” He chuckled, “I’ll be the sole human on this island till I meet St. Péter. I reckon that day be comin’ soon.”

He opened the door and nodded his head toward the open door. I nodded at him as I entered the tiny cabin.

“I’ll get a fire started; I will.” He grinned as he threw two sizable pieces of firewood into the open fireplace. “Make yasef comfy.”

“Thank you.” I sat in a chair with cushions that were threadbare and worn.

“Please stay for dinner.” He struck a match and caught the kindling ablaze, “Having stag stew. Got this twelve pointer on Deasker Island, I did.” He put a black iron pot on the tripod set up inside the fireplace.

It struck me as odd Angus had a measure of hospitality that I did not expect. Watching him move about the cabin, it was apparent to me that he had adapted to this hostile environment.

His story was well known in the tabloids after having held the Parliament Building in London hostage for three days back in May 1964. He had strategically placed several loads of dynamite, enough to blow the entire building and everyone in it. He spoke to the television news coverage about how they had been ignoring the Scottish problem. Angus eagerly told the reporters that Scotland had been put aside after World War II as their poverty and lack of prosperity made them second-class citizens. For three days what the press dubbed “Terror Comes to Parliament,” Agnus held England attention during the tense standoff.

The sad part was after the police were able to gain access to the building and put Agnus MacGuire safely into custody, everybody was quick to forget all about the ruckus. turning their attention back to the Profumo Affair which would not go away. Agnus, on the other hand, was given his sentence, never to be heard from again.

“People come pokin’ ‘round here from time to time.” He squatted to stir the stew in the cast iron pot, “Some of them be takin’ pit-ers of the place. I can’t say this be Buckingham Palace, but it suits me jus’ fine.”

“How many journalist come up here?” I asked.

He reflected for a moment. “You be the first one in three years.”

“I thought there would be more wanting to know about Terror in Parliament.”

“I done what I could, but nobody wanted to listen to an old shepherd from the Highlands.” He sighed as he sat on the divan or something like a divan. “Nobody cares ‘bout us since the days of Roburt the Bruce. We are just sheep herders who tawk funny.”

I heard the wind rattle the panes of glass in the windows.

“Out here, nuthin’ stops the wind.” He laughs. “Rattles a few ghosts from time to time, it does. Dey tells me there used to be a coven of witches out here too. Me grandma told me about rituals usin’ human sacrifices. Mos’ of me kin believed she be a witch as well. Stew is almost ready.”

“I wish to thank you for your hospitality.”

“Well, if ya didn ya might be outta luck.” He smiled and then stirred the stew. “I like the solitude. Been six or seven years out here and if I went back home, nobody would say a thing. But back home they be fussin’ and fightin’ over things that ain’t worth the price of salt. I like the sound of the wind and waves. Damn good lullaby.”

“I was going to go back.” I shrugged.

“To what reason be?” He chuckled. “Can’ be nothing worth temptin’ Neptune.” He puts his head between his shoulders, “At times they ask me to help search for lost fishermen. Some of them are only focused on profit and they take chances, they do. I finds them. Their bodies washed up on the rocks of these islands out here. Ain’t no boat to be found. I figure the waves took it jus’ like they always do.” He got up and walked to the cupboards where he pulled out two bowls. Walks back to the fire and scoops out two helpings with a scoop that nearly fills both bowls. He hands one to me. “Ya won’ need salt.”

There is a spoon in my bowl, but the broth is much too hot to eat. I hold it to let it cool while Angus takes a healthy helping and put it in his mouth.

“That is good eating, it is.” He says wiping the dripping broth from his mouth with his jacket sleeve. His whole round face seemed to glow in the flickering flames in the fireplace. While I would find this place unlivable by my own fussy standards, Angus MacGuire had turned this place into his cozy domicile.

I was still a student in college when he and six other kilted Scots had stormed Parliament just like Guy Fawkes did in 1605 in an effort to make a political statement using gunpowder as his method. Guy Fawkes day is celebrated as a national holiday, a lesson to those wishing to overthrow the British government. I find it sad that there is no recognition of Angus MacGuire who, but for a faulty fuse, was denied his goal.

He did not seem bitter that he had failed in his attempt, but I could see that his resolve to achieve recognition for the poor shepherds of Scotland had been crushed.

“No one seemed to care when all was said and done.” He pouted for a moment, but then another smile graced his ruddy face. “What do you think of me stew?”

He was anxious to get my opinion on the meal. I was a city chap after all and game meat seldom crossed my palate, but when I dipped my spoon in the steaming broth, the savory flavor was quite commendable.

“Quite tasty.” I nodded.

“Yeah, I am fond of elk. I must admit that most of my diet consists of it.” He put his bowl in a basin to be washed.

It was then I spotted the shadowbox set on the mantelpiece. Upon closer inspection, I saw there were medals, military decorations including a Victorian Cross in the center of the encased display.

“Medals for bravery.” He ran his hand through his thick tangled red hair.

“What did you get these for?” I asked.

“Me and a bunch of my lads landed on Normandy. We were all demolition specialists.” He shook his head. There was a melancholy expression on his face that hadn’t been there before. We blew a few of the kraut bridges but lost a few of our mates in the process.”

He picked up the shadowbox. It looked so small in his massive hands, “I think of them every time I look at this thing. After they given me all the tin they could, they shipped us home without a thanks or a smart salute. I just wanted someone to tell me nice job. These medals don’t do the talking as far as I am concerned.”

He wiped a stray tear from his cheek and put the shadow box back on the mantel where he had taken it from.

He sat back on his divan, reached down where he had hidden a bottle of whiskey and took off the cap. “Wan’ some?”

“No thanks.” I shook my head.

“So, how long have you been in the press?” He asked after taking a healthy swig.

“I worked for Reuters during the Korean conflict.” I answered.

“Conflict? Funny word to use for a bloodbath, eh?” He tilted his head.

“Yes, it was a shooting gallery at times.” I shook my head.

“It always is. War is a terrible thing. General Sherman, a Yank, once said, ‘Thank God war is hell otherwise we’d become fond of it.’” He tilted his head back and took a long swig off the bottle, “When we walked into Parliament, I took the six guys who survived the war. They were experts at setting charges on the bridges in France and Germany.”

He paused as if what he was about to say was painful to him, “The authorities used deadly force and when it was over, I was the sole survivor. The fuse was a dud.”

“They were all killed?” I had my pad open, “Would you mind saying their names?”

“I would. I would mind. Do you know why?” His eyes glistened in the firelight.

I shook my head holding my pen against my bottom lip.

“I can hear their voices sometimes when the wind is kicking up, lad.” He chuckled, but it was not a cheerful noise. “I will name them, but if you’re the lad I think you are, I want you to say a prayer for each of them.”

“I will.” I promised in a whisper.

“First one was Stone MacGregor. He could set a deadly charge with his eyes closed. He died on the first floor.”

I wrote his name down.

“Second was Erin Flint. Took out a German gun position single-handedly.” He ran his finger around the rim of the bottle. “Shamus Walter Scott named for the great Scottish author. He longed to be a writer like his name shake. Owen Twilliger was able to beat everyone in his unit and company in a foot race. Nigel Queensbee and last but not least, Fredrick Morgan who lied about his age so he could enlist. All good men. I am proud to call them my brothers.”

“Thank you.”

“Did you serve?” He said before finishing off the bottle.

“No, I was just a correspondent.” I admitted.

“But you saw combat.” He pointed a long finger at me.

“More than I wanted to.” I bowed my head.

“The trick is to stay human.” His voice came from a very low place.

“Yes.” I agreed.

“Tomorrow, I’ll help you with yawr boat. Sometimes launching can get rather tricky.” He inhaled deeply, “I will live the rest of my days on this island. If I ever went back to the Highlands, I would find it tedious to say the least.”

“I will leave you in peace.” I promised.

“I appreciate that.” He nodded, “It’s time for me to turn in. I will bring out a couple of blankets before I retire.”

“Alright.”

“And send me a copy of your article. If it’s worth a hoot, I’ll put it in my box with the medals.” He said as he tossed me a couple of blankets. Then he retreated behind a curtain where he had an old army cot. Within minutes I could hear him snoring. I lay my head down, but the surface of the divan was hard and unforgiving. I tossed and turned. Finally, I gave up and walked out the door to have a cigarette.

Darkness was total and the breeze had gotten stronger. I remember taking photographs of the chaps in the Chosen River Valley during the Korean War. The wind stabbed me with an Arctic chill. While the sea breeze was not as brutal, it still made me shiver a bit as my memory and present tense collided a bit. Standing in the darkness I could not distinguish the differences of my own reality.

The fire had died down as only the glowing embers remained. I could feel the night chill trying to retake the cabin, so I pulled the blankets tighter. I could not wait to be on my way in the morning.

There was a lingering sorrow here. I felt it.

Angus MacGuire had decorated his island with mournfulness and tragedy of his own accord. I came here to interview him for my article, but then I had been affected by the melancholy mood of this place.

Somewhere in the dread I was sensing, I finally managed to fall asleep. I awoke to what seemed like a short nap. The sun was not visible behind a gray curtain and the ocean melted into the horizon where there’d be no distinction between the firmament and the sea. It would be a cold journey back that I was not looking forward to in my present mental state.

“Lemme give ya a hand, lad.” Angus greeted me as I tried unsuccessfully to turn my skiff over. For reasons, I still can explain, I did not wish to spend any more time in his company, but I was unable to get my boat into the rising tide.

He asked, “Dija sleep well?”

I wasn’t going to tell him the truth. He had been very hospitable to me in my short stay. Single-handedly, he turned my boat over and waded into the water carrying it.

“Thank you.” I nodded.

“Don’t be thanking me, lad.” He smiled. “I know ya gotta be goin.’ Busy ya be.” There was a note of dejection in his husky voice. He waved as I started the outboard. I let it churn the gray seawater. He waved to me as I pulled away from the shore.

When the port of Tagharry came into view, there was a tremendous explosion in the west. I nearly fell out of the skiff but managed to hold on to the sides of my boat. Smoke rose above the horizon, and I knew what had happened. I put my engine on full throttle in case the explosion had caused a rogue wave that could capsize me.

“What do you reckon that explosion was?” A deckhand helped me out of my skiff while another man moored my boat to the pier.

“I dunno.” I shook my head knowing full well what had taken place.

Rescue teams were sent to the island where they would find that everything had been charred black by the explosion. One of their rescue boats saw Angus’ boat he had hidden in the dense scrubby brush on the west side of the Island, bobbing the water offshore. There was no one sitting inside.

Later some waves splashed the shore, but that was all that occurred. Mr. Rawlings, my editor, read over the copy of my interview with Angus MacGuire. “I think you have captured his essence.”

“I did me best.” Angus had summed up his life. Still, I was stunned that he had decided to join his mates on the ghost road. Perhaps it was for the best. I can only hope he found what he was looking for.