#Royal Scots Greys

[illustratus]

Gordons and Greys to the Front at Waterloo by Stanley Berkeley

[confusedbyinterface]

I just watched Waterloo, and given the critique that Ridley Scott gives Napoleon RTS powers, its interesting how Waterloo uses the realities of command and communication for dramatic effect.

The charge of the Union Brigade is a great example.

At 2:50 in the video, the French lancers are charging out to attack the Scots Greys. Wellington and Uxbridge see them, and realising the Scots Greys are in danger Uxbridge orders their retreat. The trumpeter sounds the order but they can't hear him. He keeps playing over and over as Wellington gets more anxious until he finally shouts for him to stop, knowing there's no way to save Ponsonby and his men now.

Napoleon and Wellington can't just magically make people do what they want, they have to actually tell them. Their officers have their own opinions and talk back, or are already too far to be reached, or like Grouchy were given very clear orders by you and have no way of knowing you changed your mind until they get a letter too late to make any difference. There's tension and drama in that, and if Ridley Scott ignored it it's a real missed opportunity.

[horses-in-art-history]

The Royal Scots Greys was a cavalry regiment in the British army known for their grey horses. In WW1 they were ordered to dye their mounts dark chestnut so they would be less conspicuous and make the regiment harder to identify. While they were in reserve the horses were allowed to have their natural colour.

Scots Greys (1918) by John Singer Sargent  (1856–1925). Watercolour paint on paper. (picture source)

Studies for "Scots Greys" (1918) by John Singer Sargent  (1856–1925). Graphite on wove paper. (picture source)

Royal Scots Greys on a road in France (1914-1918) a photo from The Dutch National Archives. (picture source)

[monkeyssalad-blog]

The Royal Scots Greys postcard by Harry Payne by totallymystified

[herprivateswe]

A British soldier and dog at the officers' mess kitchen of the Royal Scots Greys at their camp, October 1916.

[blackswaneuroparedux]

The reward of one duty is the power to fulfil another.

George Eliot

HRH Prince Edward, Duke of Kent is one of the most underrated members of the Royal Family, always stoic he’s always been dependable and never flusters, the world needs more 'Steady Eddies'.

There’s no question that the Duke of Kent’s dedication to serving the crown and the country is beyond reproach. For over 50 years, the Duke of Kent has been performing royal duties and on behalf of the monarchy. HRH Prince Edward at a young age filled a huge role vacated by the untimely death of his father in 1942. Since then, the Duke of Kent has ceaselessly spent much of his time performing ceremonial functions, attending charitable causes and supporting various organisations on behalf of his cousin Queen Elizabeth II and the British Monarchy. He has represented Her Majesty in the independence celebrations in the former British colonies of Sierra Leone, Uganda, Guyana, and Gambia. Most recently he has attended the 50th Independence Anniversary Celebration of Ghana. He has also acted as Counselor of State during periods of the  Queen's absence abroad.

What is often forgotten is that HRH Prince Edward was a fine soldier. Much like the late Duke of Edinburgh’s naval service was subsumed by his royal persona, the Duke of Kent has never let his royal duties interfere with his army career.

Prince Edward attended Ludgrove in Berkshire for his preparatory education. He then proceeded to Eton College and later in Le Rosey in Switzerland. After school, he attended the Royal Military Academy in Sandhurst, where he won the Sir James Moncrieff Grierson prize for foreign languages. After graduating from Sandhurst in 1955, the duke joined the Royal Scots Grey as Second Lieutenant. That was the start of a military career that spanned over 20 years, one which took him to various places around the world.

In 1961, he was promoted Captain; Major in 1967; and Lieutenant Colonel in 1973. In 1970 the Duke commanded a squadron of his regiment serving in the British Sovereign Base Area in Cyprus, part of the UN force enforcing peace between the Greek and Turkish halves of the island. The duke also spent time commanding a unit in Northern Ireland shortly after the Troubles in the 1970s broke out, but was recalled early on grounds of security.

The duke now maintains his link with the services mainly through honorary rank, which includes that of Colonel of the Scots Guards. He was personal aide-de-camp to his cousin Queen Elizabeth II who promoted him supernumerary Major General on her official birthday in 1983. He was later made a Field Marshal in 1993.

HRH Prince Edward is the longest-serving royal colonel in history. Not just of the Scots Guards but of any regiment in the British Army.

[charlotte-of-wales]

The Duke of Kent receives an 89th birthday treat from the Royal Scots Dragoon Guards, who have performed 'Happy Birthday' outside Kensington Palace. The Duke served for over 20 years in the Royal Scots Greys | October 9, 2024

[bestiarium]

Am Fear Liath Mór, or the Big Grey Man of Ben MacDhui [Scottish cryptid]

The high passes of Ben MacDhui – the second largest mountain in Scotland – are haunted by tales of a mysterious creature that supposedly stalks hikers. Usually it is described as an impossibly tall, grey spectre, thereby earning it the name ‘Am Fear Liath Mór’, meaning ‘the big grey man’.

The story starts in 1891 with professor Norman Collie of the Royal Geographic Society, who happened to be a passionate hiker as well. The professor had just climbed the cairn on the summit of Ben MacDhui when he heard something that vaguely sounded like footsteps. I should mention that this area is notoriously misty, so you can imagine how easy it is for a lone hiker to get anxious when hearing strange noises.

The footsteps continued, but they were oddly spaced: for every ‘step’ the professor heard, he himself took three or four. It was as if this mysterious spectre was taking giant leaps or had huge legs. Eventually the professor was overtaken by panic and fled. Much later, in 1925, he recounted his tale and shared it with the newspapers, who were eager to publish and often exaggerate the story of a supposed monster or cryptid living in the Scottish mountains. At the time, the mystery creature was dubbed ‘the Ben MacDhui Ghost’ in the media.

Afterwards, multiple people came forward with claims about the mountain ghost, some of which were believable (hearing unidentified sounds) and some were more fantastic (Richard Frere and Peter Densham claimed to have had a conversation with an invisible, psychic creature).

Richard Frere would later claim that while he was hiking on the top of the Ben MacDhui, he had an unshakeable feeling that someone else was there with him, and he would hear a strange high-pitched noise that seemed to come from the soil beneath his feet.

Frere also gave a physical description of a creature he claimed to have seen (but it is difficult to verify whether this is the oldest actual ‘sighting’ of the supposed ghost): a large, brown creature was seen swaggering down the mountainside. It stood about 20 feet (6m) tall, was covered with short brown fur and had a disproportionally large head supported by a thick, muscular neck. It had broad shoulders but walked upright and did not resemble an ape.

Interestingly, only a single sighting happened on a nearby mountain, rather than on the Ben MacDhui itself: in the 1920’s, Tom Crowley, the president of the local Moray Mountaineering Club, claimed to have seen an apparition while descending from Braeriach to the Glen Eanaich. It was a very tall, misty grey figure with a humanoid shape, albeit with long legs that ended in strange talons (described as resembling fingers more than toes) and a head with pointy ears.

Dr. A. M. Kellas, himself a famed mountaineer, also claimed that a giant grey humanoid creature haunted the mountain. Among the many supposed sightings, I am uncertain which one is actually the oldest description of the ‘Grey Man’ as a tall, grey spectre, but it is certainly the most popular one. The grey apparition had cemented itself as a local cryptid and urban legend and many more supposed sightings followed.

Though it is often claimed that the creature is connected to ancient Scottish or Celtic mythology, this is most likely false. Gray Affleck, the author of ‘The Big Grey Man of Ben MacDhui’, attempted to research this link but could not find a single connection with actual Highland mythology.

In 1958, the June edition of ‘Scots Magazine’ told the story of Alexander Tewnion’s 1943 expedition to the mountain. While he was descending the mountain, a giant grey shape suddenly loomed over him. Having none of this bullshit, Mr. Tewnion immediately pulled out his revolver and fired three bullets at the thing. The mysterious apparition seemed not to notice, however, and kept walking towards him, upon which Tewnion fled.

Sources: Barrie, A., 2005, Sutton Companion to the Folklore, Myths and Customs of Britain, The History Press, 480 pp. Gray, A., 2013, The Big Grey Man of Ben MacDhui, Birlinn, 183 pp. (reviewed edition, first edition published in 1970) (image source 1 : Attila Nagy on Artstation) (image source 2: ManthosLappas on Deviantart, ©Fear Liath)

[joezworld]

Christmas Story

The letters continued... 

Threats were issued:

“He’s dead if I ever see him.”

“-and if he ever shows his face around my shed, he’s a dead engine.”

“HIS COMPONENT PARTS WILL REGRET BEING ATTACHED TO HIM.”

“I’ll show him exactly what kind of a terror us diesels can be.”

“Personally, I’d have introduced his teeth to his superheater…”

-

And welcomes were given.

“I suppose this makes you one of ours now.”

“It’s nice to increase the ranks for once.”

“Can we keep you and trade Mallard to the Western?”

“I, for one, welcome you with smooth rails and green signals.”

“-and don’t worry! You’ll fit in just fine!”

-

Forgiveness was given, despite not being asked for. 

“We have heard about your recent change in “livery” and we understand.”

“Considering what’s happened I don’t blame you for tossing us into the bin.”

“-I’ve heard talk that some engines are quite taken with what you’ve done. Might be a trend!”

“Usually, old allegiances die hard. In your case, I’m surprised it lasted as long as it did.”

“Perhaps some day we can dispense with the old rivalries altogether…”

“YOU DESERVE BETTER THAN US.”

-

And declarations were made.

“ - you will always be one of us, and we love you.”

“I can’t wait to see you at the next gala!”

“YOU’LL LOOK GOOD IN BLUE, I GUARANTEE IT.”

“Keep us in your memories, but go wherever your heart takes you.”

“Don’t let engines like him keep you in a bad place, okay?”

-

Then there were the signatures. 

Your Brother

Your Sister

Your Friend

Your Compatriot

YOUR FELLOW WESTERNER

Your Eastern Acquaintance,

Caerphilly Castle

Evening Star

Deltic

Flying Scotsman

King George V

PENDENNIS CASTLE

№1306 Mayflower

D7017

D7018

D7026

D7076

Western Prince

Black Prince (92203)

Mallard [Who is writing this under duress]

Aerolite

26000 (Tommy)

№ 1420

D9500 & D9531

Lode Star

Green Arrow

№ 4498 Sir Nigel Gresley

The Engines of the Vale of Rheidol Railway

D821, D818, and D832

Blue Peter

55 022 (Royal Scots Grey)

Tuylar

Dominion of Canada

Dwight D. Eisenhower

Bittern

92212

Western Ranger

55 016

№4588

Alycidon (D9009)

№ 65462

Western Champion

Bradley Manor

7819 Hinton Manor

D9002

Royal Highland Fusilier (D9019)

№ 6412

Clun Castle

6990 Witherslack Hall

Sir Hadyn and Edward Thomas

№ 18000 (Kerosene Castle)

4488 (Union of South Africa)

Morayshire

Olton Hall

Hagley Hall

55 021

King Edward I

King Edward II

Western Courier

Western Lady

D9534

№ 7293

Western Campaigner

----------------------

Then they opened the boxes. 

The small ones were addressed to Duck and Oliver. The first few were opened up, revealing, “Name plates? Why name plates?” 

“Well, hang on a minute, these don’t look like any name plates I’ve seen before.” 

“Ah, wait, that’s it. They’re usually curved, to go over the splashers.”

“And they’re not red.”

“Well, they are if… ooooh.”

“What?”

“They’re Eastern. With the red backing. These’re LNER plates.”

Oliver stared at Duck, ignoring how the men were opening up a separate box with a similar return address.

“It’s a builder’s plate?!”

“It’s an LNER builder’s plate, see the shape?”

“Forget the shape, it says London and North Eastern on it.”

“Oh gosh, this is serious, innit?”

“That’s borderline sacreligious is what it is. Lookit that! It says Swindon on it!”

“Gordon is going to be insufferable about this, I just don’t know how.”

-

There was an identical plate for Duck, and… glory be, it really was an LNER-styled builder’s plate, made out with his information. They even found out his original works number.

He breathed in deeply. In through the nose, out through the mouth. He mattered to them, in a way that felt just as, if not more personal than the pile of letters on the floor. Maybe it was the shock, the lingering feelings from hearing Truro’s unhinged rant in the cold December air. 

“I think,” he looked between the plate, and Oliver. “That we’re at a moment in our lives that we can’t go back from.”

-----------

The boxes addressed to Bear were much larger, and were in greater quantities. 

“Oh look, this one’s a headboard!” exclaimed his driver. 

Bear’s eyes nearly popped out of their sockets when he saw that it said THE FLYING SCOTSMAN on it. 

The note attached was short, but sweet. “‘Tis nice to have another Eastern Diesel. Mayhaps someday this shall be used again in anger.” It was signed “Royal Scots Grey”. 

-

The next one had the GWR crest burned into the surface of the crate. Opening it revealed a rather lengthy nameplate wrapped in cloth. A note was tied around it. 

“Dearest Bear,” it read. “He’s done, even if he doesn’t know it yet. This raises an issue - we do need a “City” in our ranks. We think you can take up that role.”

The wrapping was undone, and Bear could feel a shocked tear build up in his eye. 

The words CITY OF TIDMOUTH glinted in the lights of the shed, the letters done in shining brass, just like the steam engines of old. 

-

Another package, this one from an address that he vaguely remembered as being an old Eastern Region TMD, contained a host of plates both large and small. The largest of them was a bright red rectangle, with silver letters that read BEAR. After looking it over, his crew deemed it to be a dead ringer for the name boards on Eastern Region diesels. 

“Which means…” said his driver, rifling through the smaller plates, each the size of a medallion. “That these must be from all the different Depots. Yeah, yeah, look. This one’s Stratford, and here’s York. Blimey, I didn’t know that anyone had a Colchester one.”

This went on for several minutes, as plates from seemingly every Eastern Region TMD were removed from the box. Bear’s eyebrows rose until they could go no higher. 

-

The next morning, his crew busied themselves with attaching several of the plates to his sides. There was some argument as to where they should be placed, and how to avoid making Bear look like “he was covered in fridge magnets.” 

Said argument was still ongoing as Gordon rolled by. His suddenly-wide eyes went from the Eastern Region name plate to THE FLYING SCOTSMAN headboard in shock. 

Bear ignored his crew, who were intently measuring the “CITY OF TIDMOUTH” nameplate like it may suddenly change size, and fixed Gordon with an intent look. “This is unequivocally your fault,” he said, keeping his tone serious even as he started to smile. “Thank you.” 

----------

A few days later, as the mail started to peter off, a deeply overstuffed document mailer ended up at the shed in Arlesburgh, addressed to Oliver and Duck collectively. 

It was a long and dry letter, filled with passages about duty and honor, dictated by King George V, the “self-proclaimed pro tempore leader of our kind, now that Truro is out.” 

Naturally, Duck found it fascinating, while Oliver would rather gnaw off his own buffers. It grew so dull that eventually the stationmaster got bored of reading Duck’s copy of the pair of identical letters aloud, and fetched a sheet music stand from the station, placing the type-written pages across it for the two engines to read at their own pace before leaving for the station. 

Oliver’s pace was “no, thank you, but I’d really rather skip to the end,” but Duck was insistent on reading the entire letter aloud. 

“-I humbly ask you as a fellow Westerner, free of all but our Swindon metal, do you have any interest…” Duck abruptly trailed off. 

“Hm?” Oliver said, blinking himself to attention. “Interest in what? Don’t tell me you’ve gotten bored now?”

Duck ignored him. “They can’t really-”

“Really what? Out with it!”

“Look!” Duck yelped. “It’s right there, on the fifth page, towards the bottom.”

Oliver rolled his eyes, but eventually found the sentence. “-any interest in becoming the new figurehead of the Great Western? What?” He squeaked in surprise, eyes skimming the preceding paragraphs to see what in the world they were on about.

“-perhaps the most unfortunate part of Truro’s fall from grace is that he is - or perhaps was - the most recognizable member of our lineage by a wide margin. While it remains true that the enthusiast may recognize myself or Caerphilly, the general public likely knows Truro for the same reason that they know Flying Scotsman. The name Great Western, and what it stands for, is vestigial at best. 

That being said, a new opportunity has presented itself. As I am sure you are aware, the books by the Reverend Awdry featuring you and Oliver have spawned a television show, which has in turn re-ignited popularity in the books. Already I have had to field queries about your Island from children clutching copies of “Duck and the Diesel Engine.” Many who have no other knowledge of our ways have nonetheless made the connection that we Westerners all know each other, and have asked me about you and Oliver. Strangely, none have asked about Truro; in fact, one child, who I have been assured does not yet know how to read, mistook me for Truro, and asked me what visiting Sodor was like. (I did not dissuade him of this view. I hope that I was correct in my assumption that Sodor is very pleasant in the summer.)

I’m sure that you can see the common thread here. You and Oliver will have an uncommon familiarity with the next generation, and possibly many more beyond. While I, Caerphilly, and the rest sit quietly behind ropes, you will continue as a working engine, adding to our common lore, and preaching our gospel. You are the highest ranking Paddie Shunter to survive the purges of Modernization, and you know more of Our Ways than even I do. 

With this in mind - and please do not take this as an obligation, a chore, a weight against your buffers - I humbly ask you as a fellow Westerner, free of all but our Swindon metal, do you have any interest in becoming the new figurehead of the Great Western Railway?”

--

Neither engine got any sleep that night, and it was a very bleary Duck that took the first train into Tidmouth the next day. 

“You look terrible,” Gordon sniffed unthinkingly. “Do you not sleep at night? Too much rearranging of your goods yard, perhaps?”

“Gordon, please-”

On the road opposite Duck, Bear raised an eyebrow. “It’s too early in the morning for either of you to start.”

“Oh fine,” Gordon huffed as the last of the passengers flooded into the express. “But it’s rather undignified for an Easterner to be so disheveled. Just look at us for an example, Duck!” 

Point made, he set off with a whoosh of steam, and within a minute the train’s rear lamp was fading into the distance. 

Bear didn’t say anything for a long while. Duck wondered if the diesel wasn’t saying anything because Gordon was right - compared to Bear’s mirror-shine paint and Gordon’s polished brass, he looked awful.

Or, the vicious little voice in the back of his mind piped up. He still doesn’t want to talk to you. Considering how you sided with Truro over-

“So, I got a letter yesterday.” Bear said, apropos of nothing. “From King George V herself.”

“Oh?” Duck seized the chance to get out of his own mind. “What about?”

“Seems like the Great Western needs a new figurehead, considering that somebody has lost all his prestige.”

“O-oh…” Duck warbled. “You got that too?”

“Mmhmm.” Bear wasn’t looking at anything in particular. “Apparently the television show is driving people to the books; people seem to like conflict in their children’s books. Something about being able to show right from wrong.” 

“Do they now?” Oh, if only the rails could swallow him whole at this moment. 

“Oh yes.” Bear looked contemplative. “It also helps that nobody really likes diesels. Smelly, underhanded things. It’s quite nice to be able to have one cause trouble and then get sent away for doing that in one single book.”

“Yes, I-I’m quite aware of what happened…” Maybe his boiler could explode. That might fix things. 

“And everybody loves a runaway train.” 

“Well, I -uh, I wouldn’t- um…” 

Bear smirked. “Obviously I don’t include you in that.” 

“W-w-well of course, I-”

Bear didn’t say anything for a second, and Duck continued to trip over his own tongue, until: 

“She’s right, you know.”

“Wh-what?” 

“King George. She’s right about you. Every child in the country is going to know your name someday, especially if they put you on the telly. And there’s not another engine alive who knows all of the history that you do.”

“Bear,” Duck finally managed to find his voice. “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Why not?” Duck was floored. “Bear, you were there! I just followed along behind him, doing whatever he said to-”

“Duck,” Bear cut him off and looked him straight in the eyes. “He was City of Truro. Who would have expected that out of any engine, let alone one of his stature?” 

“But - but - but I-” 

“Acted childish, perhaps,” Bear continued, gently. “But he revealed himself to you at the same time he did everyone. Even I didn’t think he’d hurt me on purpose!”  

“But I should have noticed!” Duck cried. “And I didn’t! What sort of leader would I be?”

Bear was unmoved. “It’s true that you didn’t notice then, but look at what you’re doing right now.” 

“What?” 

Bear smiled gently, his new nameplates gleaming in the station lights. “You’re giving yourself the third degree over this. It’s been six months, Duck! Even I’ve moved on from that, or I would, if you’d let me. Truro’s got his just desserts, I’ve found that more engines care about me than I previously thought possible, and Oliver… is Oliver-ing along like nothing ever happened. It’s just you who hasn’t moved on from this yet, and that is the true mark of a leader.”

“No, Bear,” Duck started to stammer. “But-I can’t. Surely-”

“The only sure thing is that you’d do a good job.” Bear said as the last of his passengers boarded. “Besides, if you do badly enough…” The guard blew the whistle, and waved the green flag. “You’ll look really good in garter blue!” 

And then he was off, engine roaring. The train sparkled against the early summer sun as it left, and Duck was suddenly alone at the platform. 

“He does make a good point,” Well, he was almost alone. He was still coupled to Alice and Mirabel. “What do you want to do?”

Duck didn’t say anything for a long while. 

He had a lot to think about.

[aimeedaisies]

Prince Edward, the Duke of Kent, Katherine, the Duchess of Kent, Lord Nicholas Windsor and Prince Michael of Kent watched three pipers from the Royal Scots Dragoon Guards (Carabiniers and Greys) play outside Wren House, Kensington Palace to mark Prince Edward's 89th birthday, on 9th October 2024.

The Duke is Deputy Colonel-in-Chief of the Royal Scots Dragoon Guards and served as an officer in the Royal Scots Greys between 1955 and 1971. The regiment was subsequently amalgamated with the 3rd Carabiniers (Prince of Wales Dragoon Guards) in 1971 to become the Royal Scots Dragoon Guards.

[scotianostra]

The memorial erected to the Fallen Heroes of the Royal Scots Greys (2nd Dragoons) on Princess Street in Edinburgh was unveiled by the Earl of Roseberry, K.G., P.C., on 16th November 1906.

The memorial is opposite the junction with Frederick Street and is an equestrian statue in bronze, of a trooper of the Scots Greys in full review order of 1899.

The statue is mounted on a pedestal of rock which bears the bronze plaque containing the inscription and Regimental badges. The sculptor was Mr William Birnie Rhind; the models for the statue were *Sergeant-Major Anthony James Hinnigan and his horse called “Polly”.

Anthony James Hinnigan was born in Jedburgh in 1866 and in 1882, at the age of 16, he joined the Royal Scots Greys. For the next 17 years he served with the Greys on home duty but in September 1899, by now with the rank of Sergeant-Major, he went with the Greys to South Africa when they were mobilised for service in the Second Boer War.

On his return from South Africa in 1904 Sergeant-Major Hinnigan and his horse Polly were selected as the models for Rhind’s Memorial.

Sergeant-Major Hinnigan was discharged from the army in 1911 and became landlord at the Railway Inn at Irvine in Ayrshire.

*Please note I had a look around the net when researching this and relatives of many people who served in the regiment also claim that it was their relative in the statue, although most sources give Hinnigan’s name.

I would say with it’s prominent position on Princes Street in front of Edinburgh Castle, it is one of the most photographed statues in Edinburgh, and possibly Scotland. More on the Scots Greys Regiment in just over a week.

[captain-price-unofficially]

Sherman tank of the Royal Scots Greys carrying troops of the 1/6th Queen's Regiment during mopping up operations in Torre Annunziata, Italy. 1 October 1943

[barbucomedie]

"Ferguson" Breech-Loading Rifle from Aberdeen, Scotland dated to 1776 on display at the Royal Scots Dragoon Guards Museum in Edinburgh Castle, Scotland

These rifles were invented by Lieut-Colonel Patrick Ferguson of Pitfour, Aberdeenshire. Ferguson's improved quick thread breech-loading rifle was an improvement on an earlier invention. He served as a subaltern in the Royal North British Dargoons (Scots Greys) from 1759 to 1762. Ferguson was killed in South Carolina at the Battle of King's Mountain in 1780 during the American Revolutionary War.

Photographs taken by myself 2023

[tgarnsl]

hi! Fake Married for the wip game :)

This is for Flight of the Heron, where Keith saves Ewen's life after the Battle of Culloden by claiming they're married so Ewen can get medical treatment. Technically I also have another fake married (or fake engaged) story for Hornblower, but that's a whole modern au thing where Hornblower is the Prince of Wales.

—

It was pain that roused him. Bright, sharp pain, coursing through his body, drawing him to the surface, drawing him through its silver skin, and he cursed and raged and shook against the hands that held him down, but he could neither break free, nor retreat. Slowly, the world pieced itself together again, fragments fitting together like shattered pieces of a windowpane until at last he could see clearly. He lay in a bed, half propped up on pillows, gasping for air as a surgeon in a wiry grey wig tied off a bandage on his left thigh. Where was he? The white-washed room was small and warm, nothing like… His breath caught in his lungs and a great shudder rolled through him.

Presently — though he was not quite aware how presently — it was brought to his attention that the surgeon was speaking to someone. A redcoat officer stood before the fire, his back turned to where Ewen lay, but Ewen did not need to see the soldier’s face to recognise who it was. The man stood before him was none other than Keith Windham of the Royal Scots.

So he was to be interrogated then. There could be no other explanation for Windham’s presence in this room: the Elector’s generals sought to question Ewen, and believed that a man with whom he was already acquainted was the best one to conduct such an interrogation. His hands clutched at the bedsheets. He would not do it. No word would pass from his lips that he did not wish to give, not even if they flogged him, or put him back in that foetid cell with all the other wounded and dying. No, he would die before he broke faith. His lower lip was trembling and he bit it hard, shutting his eyes against the torrent of grief and despair that sought to drown him.

When he roused again, it was to an urgent voice in his ear calling his name and a rough hand on his cheek.

“Ardroy,” said the voice again. “Ewen!”

He groaned and opened his eyes. Keith Windham stood over him, peering at him with great concern.

“No,” he murmured through cracked lips. “Leave me be.”

“Ardroy, you must listen,” said Windham insistently, but Ewen ignored him, his eyes sliding shut as sleep drew him closer. “Ardroy, wake up!” A hand smacked his cheek lightly and he roused with a groan.

“Pòg mo thòin,” murmured Ewen, his head swimming from pain and thirst.

“I presume that was an insult,” said Windham sharply. “I may well deserve it, too. Ardroy, listen to me. I must know — did you wed Miss Grant?”

It was like being thrown from a carriage. “What?” asked Ewen, trying to clear his head. “Miss Grant — Alison?”

“Yes,” said Windham. “Did you wed her?”

Ewen shook his head. “No,” he said. “No, I — she left for France.” He could still see her standing proud at the side of the ship, one arm raised in farewell, as it took her away to safety. “I would not see her a widow before her time.”

Windham frowned. “Truly, Ardroy, I am sorry,” he said, glancing away. “I cannot tell if it makes what I say next better or worse.”

Fear gripped Ewen’s heart. “Alison, is she—” he gasped, struggling to sit up.

“No, no,” said Windham, laying a hand on Ewen’s shoulder. “I have no news of her, nor of anyone else. I…” He broke off, his frown deepening. “Do you recall how you came to be here? How I found you?”

Ewen bit his lip, struggling to recall. “The parade,” he said, and turned away. He could recall little in truth, ravaged as he had been by weakness and fever, but he remembered well enough the cruel laughter of the Hanoverian officers when he had fallen, unable to walk. “But how…?”

“I said you were my husband,” answered Keith Windham. His cheeks were flushed, and he would not meet Ewen’s eyes. “I am sorry. I could see no other way of saving your life.”

[legend-collection]

Am Fear Liath Mòr

Am Fear Liath Mòr is the name for a presence or creature which is said to haunt the summit and passes of Ben Macdui, the highest peak of the Cairngorms and the second highest peak in British Isles after Ben Nevis.

Pic by mlappas on deviantart

Although there have been many purported encounters with the Big Grey Man, few eyewitnesses have actually seen the creature. It is reported to be very thin and over ten feet tall, with dark skin and hair, long arms, and broad shoulders. Most often, the creature remains unseen in the fog of the mountain, with encounters limited to the sound of crunching gravel as it walks behind climbers and a general feeling of unease around the mountain. Tangible evidence of its existence is limited to a few photographs of unusual footprints, so the majority relies on the credibility of eyewitness encounters.

The figure has many similarities with the Brenin Llwyd (English: Grey King) of Welsh mythology, this figure is also semi-corporeal, silent and uses the mists as a cloak to prey on unwary travellers. Unlike the Am Fear Liath, Brenin Llwyd is found in mountainous locations across Wales, and is particularly noted to prey on children.

In 1925, J. Norman Collie gave the first recorded account of a Grey Man encounter. A noted hiker, professor, and member of the Royal Geographical Society, Collie recounted a terrifying experience he had as he hiked alone near the summit of Ben Macdui years earlier in 1891.

"I was returning from the cairn on the summit in a mist when I began to think I heard something else than merely the noise of my own footsteps. Every few steps I took I heard a crunch, and then another crunch, as if someone was walking after me but taking steps three or four times the length of my own. I said to myself, this is all nonsense. I listened and heard it again but could see nothing in the mist. As I walked on and the eerie crunch, crunch sounded behind me, I was seized with terror and took to my heels, staggering blindly among the boulders for four or five miles nearly down to Rothiemurchus Forest. Whatever you make of it, I do not know, but there is something very queer about the top of Ben Macdui and I will not go back there again."

Collie's account was reported in the local press, which started a debate between sceptics and believers within the community. Other climbers came forward with their own encounters, which they had previously been afraid to share. One climber, Hugh D. Welsh, said that he hiked the summit with his brother in 1904, where throughout the day and night they heard "slurring footsteps, as if someone was walking through water-saturated gravel." Both felt "frequently conscious of something near us, an eerie sense of apprehension."

In 1945, Pete Densham was participating in rescue work in the Cairngorm mountains during World War II. One day, he reported hearing strange noises, mist closing in on his location, and increasing pressure around his neck. He fled before seeing anything concrete. A friend of his, climber Richard Frere, wrote about his sense of "a Presence, utterly abstract but intensely real" on the mountain and heard "an intensely high singing note" a few years later in 1948. Frere also presented the encounter of another mutual friend, who wished to remain anonymous, while he camped on Ben Macdui. He reported waking up feeling an inescapable feeling of dread, and looked out of his tent to see a large figure with dark hair standing in front of the moon in silhouette.

In 1958, naturalist and mountaineer Alexander Tewnion published an article in The Scots magazine about an encounter with the Grey Man in 1943.

"I spent a 10-day leave climbing alone in the Cairngorms. One afternoon, just as I reached the summit cairn of Ben MacDhui, mist swirled across the Lairig Ghru and enveloped the mountain. The atmosphere became dark and oppressive, a fierce, bitter wind whisked among the boulders, and... an odd sound echoed through the mist – a loud footstep, it seemed. Then another, and another... A strange shape loomed up, receded, came charging at me! Without hesitation I whipped out the revolver and fired three times at the figure. When it still came on I turned and hared down the path, reaching Glen Derry in a time that I have never bettered. You may ask was it really the Fear Laith Mhor? Frankly, I think it was.

No photographs of the Big Grey Man have ever been taken. Photographer John A. Rennie supposedly found a series of footprints in Spey Valley, measuring 19 inches (48 centimetres) long and 14 inches (36 centimetres) wide. These were published in a book, but he later discovered that they were a natural phenomenon caused by rainfall eroding the snow.

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The Royal Scots Greys by a roadside at Brimeaux, 25 May 1918.