The big man snarled, ‘Ale. That’s what you sell, isn’t it?’
‘I know you. You’re barred – you’re a trouble-maker. Go away. I’ll sell no ale to the likes of you.’ And the shutter was slammed shut. No amount of angry hammering with both fists could get it opened again.
As Bullhead turned away in frustration he saw a figure come running out of a side alley and go hurrying up the street. It was a girl – he couldn’t believe his luck. Slinking like a predatory cat along the high wall, he followed her. She was scurrying in the direction of the farmsteading. Bullhead crept at her back. She turned into a shed and he could hear her rattling something within. Anger and lust rose in him as he stepped up to the open door and looked in. A young woman in bondager’s costume was pouring corn into a big metal bowl. He jumped into the shed, pulled the door closed behind him and moved towards her. She turned with guileless eyes wide and asked, ‘What do—?’ but before she could finish the question, he clapped a hand across her mouth and threw her on her back on the ground.
Wee Lily was a strong girl and she fought back furiously, but she was no match for Bullhead who grunted as he held her down, ‘Shut up, or I’ll kill you.’ His bloodshot eyes glared crazily into hers, and she knew he meant what he said. His hand was pressed against her mouth and though she bit into it, the palm was like leather from years of wielding shovels and she could not make him let go. He tore her skirt off and like a raging animal penetrated her, brutally and repeatedly. When he finally rose, spent, she lay with her head turned on the ground and tears running down her face. Buckling his belt, the big navvy laughed mockingly, kicked her in the side with his booted foot and strutted away.
Emma Jane, wrapped in her waterproof cape, was on her way back from a visit to the bridge when she met a distraught Big Lily in the street. ‘Have you seen my lassie? Have you seen Wee Lily?’ she asked, rushing up and laying a hand on Emma Jane’s arm.
‘No, I’ve not seen anybody. The whole place is deserted, thanks to this rain.’
‘I sent her out two hours ago to feed the hens and she’s not come back. I’ve been to the steading and the hen corn’s all scattered over the shed floor and her shawl’s there, but she isn’t. I’m feared something’s happened to her.’
‘Oh, nothing’ll have happened to her. I’ll come with you and help you look. Where would she go? She might have called in to see somebody. Did you ask Tibbie?’
‘I’ve been at all the neighbours but she’s not there. It’s no’ like her…’
‘Have you been at the farm?’
‘Craigie’s sisters won’t let her in. They’ve aye been jealous about me and Wee Lily, because of Craigie… and they’ve nae bairns of their ain, ye see.’
‘Let’s go to the farm, then. It’s the only place left,’ said Emma Jane sensibly, taking hold of Big Lily’s hand. ‘Come on – I’ll go with you.’
They rapped on the farmhouse door and after a long wait it was opened by a wizened little woman who looked like an aged fieldmouse. She stared at Big Lily with hostile eyes and said, ‘He’s in his bed. Just get on with the work. You know what’s to be done — go and do it.’
Emma Jane spoke up. ‘We’ve come to ask if you’ve seen Wee Lily.’
The tiny eyes switched to her but the gaze did not soften. ‘No, why should I?’ Then the door was slammed shut.
The two disappointed women were about to walk away when Big Lily suddenly stopped. ‘I hear her, I hear her. She’s in the wash-house,’ she cried.
At the side of the farmhouse was a low-built, stonewalled structure where the women washed clothes. The door stood ajar and from within came a little voice crying, ‘Oh Mam, oh Mam… help me, Mam.’ They ran over and Big Lily burst in to find her daugher huddled in a corner, half-naked with the ragged remnants of her skirt held in front of her and her torn blouse revealing bruised plump breasts.
‘Dear God, Lily, what’s happened to you?’ cried the anguished mother, dropping to her knees beside the weeping girl.
‘Oh Mam, he came into the shed and grabbed me. He did terrible things to me and then he kicked me.’ Wee Lily put a hand on her side where her ribs ached, for Bullhead had broken one of them.
Big Lily stood up with her face thunderous. ‘Oh bairn, it wasnae Craigie, was it?’ Emma Jane, listening with horror, wondered about the circumstances in which Big Lily had conceived her child.
Wee Lily groaned, ‘No Mam, not Craigie, yin o’ thae navvies. I’ve seen him at the bridge – a big one with a red face. He smelled something horrible.’ Then she started crying again.
They lifted her to her feet and covered her nakedness with Emma Jane’s cape. ‘Come on home, bairn, come on home. Dinna hide in here, you’ve no’ done anything wrong,’ Big Lily told her grimly.
‘I just want to dee,’ sobbed Wee Lily, but she stood up and leaned on her mother. Between them they guided her back to the bondagers’ bothy and as she staggered along, she sobbed, ‘He said he’d kill me. “I’ll kill you, you bitch, I’ll kill you” – that’s what he kept on saying all the time. Oh Mam, I was that feared and it hurt so much. Why does it hurt so much?’
‘Watch here a minute, I’m going to ask the smith to fetch the doctor to her. He might have hurt her bad,’ said Big Lily to Emma Jane, when they got the girl inside the house. She ran off in the direction of the smithy and Emma Jane sat holding Wee Lily’s hand, listening to her terrible description of the rape. The girl couldn’t stop talking about it.
‘He jumped on top of me, he had me round the throat. “I’ll kill you, you bitch!” Oh God, it’s sair!’
When Big Lily came back she nodded to indicate that William was on his way to Dr Stewart’s and then she said urgently to Emma Jane, ‘Go and bring Tibbie – she’ll ken what to do.’
When Tibbie heard the awful tale, she ran straight out of her cottage without even taking off her long apron, and burst into the bondagers’ bothy. Wee Lily looked up, saw her standing in the doorway and began her story all over again. ‘He threw me doon among the corn… he was grunting like a pig… After he got up he kicked me. It’s so sair…’
Tibbie nodded as she listened and then she said, ‘I’ll make up a brew for her just in case – you know – but let’s hope nothing’s happened. Has she had her bleeding recently?’
Big Lily shrugged hopelessly. ‘About two weeks ago. She only started last year. She was late, like me.’
‘Then this is the worst time. But I’ll make her a potion and we’ll see what we can do.’
‘The doctor’s coming,’ said Big Lily. ‘Maybe he’ll do something.’
‘I doubt it,’ replied Tibbie drily.
Dr Stewart did not want to go out in the rain, but he could not refuse William Strang for he sent his carriage horses to Camptounfoot for shoeing and Tibbie’s brother was the best smith in the district.
‘Are you sure it’s an emergency?’ he asked, and the black-bearded smith nodded firmly.
‘A lassie’s been attacked. She needs your help, Doctor.’
William stood his ground, solemn and strong, so Stewart had to go with him. When he was shown into the bothy, the physician’s nose wrinkled and he stared around in disapproval, for this was not the sort of house he liked to visit. Lily was by this time in bed and slightly calmer, but she cowered back like a scared animal as the doctor leaned over to look at the bruises on her body. The pain in her ribs made her cry out when he tried to turn her over.
‘She’s been beaten,’ he said.
‘She was raped,’ Big Lily told him indignantly.
‘Raped?’ He raised a sceptical eyebrow. ‘She’s a big girl. Most females who say they’ve been raped co-operate, you know. I’ve never heard of a genuine case of a woman being taken without her consent. A strong girl can fight a man off if she wants.’
‘He said he’d kill me,’ sobbed Wee Lily as her mother bristled in her defence.
‘She’s only fifteen and she was a virgin, as innocent as a lamb,’ she shouted.
Stewart frowned in disapproval of such impolite behaviour. ‘Did she know the man?’ he asked.
‘Of course not.’ Big Lily was so angry she looked as if she wanted to hit him.
‘How do you know? Were you there?’ asked the doctor.
‘Of course I wasn’t! You don’t think I’d let a man rape her if I was, do you?’ He said nothing and Big Lily, angered beyond endurance, burst out with, ‘Like I said, my lassie was a virgin till this happened and I’m feared that he’s given her a bairn.’
Stewart straightened up from the bed. ‘I can do something for her broken rib and for her bruises, but if she’s pregnant, she’ll just have to bear it. There’s nothing I can do about that.’
Before he left, Craigie Scott came bursting in, for William had gone to fetch him. Tibbie had not seen Craigie for many months, and was astonished by the sight of him. His hair had grown so long that it was nearly at his shoulders, and a beard covered most of his face. His eyes were the same though, mad and raging.
‘Is it true? Has some navvy hurt Wee Lily?’ he asked, looking around at the women in the house.
‘Aye, she was raped,’ Tibbie said heavily. ‘The doctor says she’s got a broken rib as well. He’s bandaged it up for her.’
Craigie glared at Stewart. ‘How much is your fee?’ he demanded.
‘Five shillings,’ was the reply.
‘Here – take it,’ grunted Craigie, reaching into his pocket and bringing out some coins. When Stewart had gone, he looked at Big Lily and said, ‘Which navvy did it?’
‘The big one with the red face. The folk in the alehouse say he was in there asking for beer before he found Wee Lily in the shed. It’s the one they had to bar for fighting. He’s on the bridge gang and he aye wears a red scarf round his neck. Bullhead’s his name…’
Craigie nodded. ‘I know the one. Leave it with me.’ Then he went away and the people left behind stared at each other in amazement at how calm and rational he sounded.
It went on raining all night, teeming down with relentless fury, battering against the window glass and filling the burns and wells. Craigie Scott sat in his farmhouse listening to the fury of the storm and drinking whisky. He was not normally a liquor-drinking man, for he resented what he called pouring money down his throat. Usually his refreshment was the watery ale his sisters brewed and which local people said would drown you before it fuddled you. There was, however, a line of big, brown earthenware jars full of whisky in his cellar and occasionally when people called he would unbend sufficiently to offer them a glass from his secret store. It was one of those jars that he hauled up when he came back from seeing Wee Lily, and all night long he sat drinking from it while his frightened sisters, who did not sleep either, peeped round the edge of the door at him, pleading with him to stop drinking and go to bed. He didn’t answer, for by that time he was carefully taking apart and oiling his shotgun. His sisters clung together in despair and whispered to each other.
First one and then the other tried to stop him, but Craigie ignored them and went on with his task.
* * *
At dawn Emma Jane was wakened from sleep by a tremendous hammering at Tibbie’s front door. ‘Miss Wylie, Miss Wylie, get up! The embankment’s slipping!’ It was Jopp’s voice and he was in a panic. He had arrived in a dogcart and she climbed in beside him for a pell-mell ride round by Rosewell to the north side of the bridge.
He was right. The terrible rain had washed away at the end of the piled-up northern embankment. Only the stone pier that had faced it stood stark against the side of the hill with a huge, washed-out void behind it. Obviously it would not stand there for long before it came crashing down as well, because a cascade of water was running round it towards the river far below.
Emma Jane looked aghast at the sight. ‘The bridge-end’s gone. The embankment’s not packed hard enough.’
Jopp was in a panic because he was afraid the railway directors would blame him for this collapse. The embankment was his responsibility, and if its fall held up the progress of the bridge, that could not be blamed on Emma Jane, and might in fact earn her extra time to finish her contract. He turned on her in a fury. ‘It’s not my fault – it’s the rain. It wasn’t full finished before the rain got it. Don’t blame me.’
She stared hard at him. ‘I’m not blaming you. What we’ve got to do now is to stop the whole thing from sliding away. We must call out the men and divert that flow of water.’
Jopp was beside himself. ‘I’ve sent for them, I’ve sent for them. They’re coming. Oh my God, when’s this damned rain going to stop!’
For two hours they worked, digging, heaving, ditching… The men sweated so heavily that their soaking shirts steamed on their backs, but they could not stop the inevitable. At half-past nine there was a tremendous crash and the first pier, the one that was meant to bear the weight of the whole bridge, crashed into the river. When the noise died away and the splashing subsided, Emma Jane, standing high on the embankment, stared down on the ruin of her hopes, sunk her face in her hands and began to cry.
The men around turned to give her support, especially Gentleman Sydney who said, ‘Don’t worry, Miss Wylie. We’ll build it up again and we’ll build it better next time.’
He put out a hand to help her off the embankment, but as she was clambering down they were both almost knocked over by a man who came running up from the field below. His hair was flying and he was only wearing a shirt and a pair of working trousers belted round his waist. In his hand he carried a gleaming gun. Emma Jane clutched Sydney’s arm. ‘It’s Craigie Scott, the farmer from Camptounfoot,’ she gasped.
Craigie paid no heed to her or to Sydney. It was a figure standing in a group on the top of the pile of earth that drew all his attention. Bullhead turned when the man walked up behind him and shouted, ‘Which one’s Bullhead? Are you Bullhead?’
The big man looked him up and down insolently. ‘I’m Bullhead,’ he said. ‘Who wants me?’
Craigie Scott didn’t answer. Instead he raised the rifle, took careful aim and shot Bullhead full in the face from a range of five feet. Blood and brains spattered in all directions as his victim screamed and put his hands up to his shattered head. Very slowly he sank to his knees with blood spurting out between his fingers. Then he fell over sideways and lay still.
‘Oh my God, don’t look, don’t look,’ cried Sydney and grabbed the girl, pulling her towards him and burying her face in his wet shirt-front.
Bullhead was killed outright, and Craigie Scott lowered his rifle with a strange abstracted look on his face. The man standing next to him, a quiet and responsible fellow, put out a hand and said very gently, ‘Give me the gun.’ Without argument it was passed over. ‘Come and sit down,’ said the man in the same tone, and he led the dazed Craigie away.
When Sydney saw them go he loosened his grip on Emma Jane, who had been shaking and quivering against his chest. ‘He’s gone,’ he said, releasing her fully.
She looked up at him with agonised eyes, not daring to look around. ‘Is Bullhead dead?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s in revenge, because he raped Wee Lily, Craigie’s daughter, last night,’ she explained.
Sydney was not surprised. Whatever Bullhead had done to deserve his final retribution, it had been coming to him for a long, long time. Craigie Scott was only the instrument of Nemesis.
‘You’re soaked and you’re shocked. I’ll take you home,’ he told the shuddering girl.
When he handed her over to Tibbie, who listened horrified to the tale he had to tell, he drove to Maddiston to fetch Alex Robertson. There was nothing the young doctor could do for Bullhead except write the death certificate, but Sydney thought he might be able to help Emma Jane, who was on the verge of hysteria though she had not yet realised it.
Half an hour later, a frightened-looking Tibbie opened her cottage door to Robertson and solemnly pointed up the stairs to Emma Jane’s room. ‘She’s up there and she’s bad. She can’t stop crying,�
�� she said distractedly.
Sydney entered the house behind his friend and stood in the hall while the doctor climbed the stair. Then he turned to Tibbie and asked, ‘Have you heard anything from your son-in-law? Do you know where he is?’
She nodded. ‘He’s in a place called Balaclava. He sent me a letter to say he’s in the Crimea.’
‘That’s what I thought. Thank you,’ he said.
Chapter Eighteen
The navvies were working on a steeply rising gradient of land called Frenchman’s Hill, when a young fresh-faced ensign came galloping up. ‘Which one’s Maquire?’ he called out.
For a moment Tim did not respond. He had grown so used to being addressed as Black Ace, which was the name he had given to Peto when he signed up at Whitechapel, that now he responded to nothing else.
‘Which one of you is called Timothy Maquire?’ repeated the ensign irritably. In his hand he held a slip of paper that fluttered in the breeze. He was resentful at being ordered by his Colonel to deliver a telegraphic message to a navvy, for the ensign was a prim young man who regarded those brawling, outrageous characters as little better than heathens.
Tim straightened up from his work and called out, ‘I’m Maquire. What do you want?’
The ensign wheeled his horse and said haughtily, ‘It’s not what I want – a telegraphic message has come for you. My Colonel ordered me to bring it over.’
A Bridge in Time Page 52
