by Jane Yolen
“Aye, perhaps,” he said. Then he turned his back on us all, but Ishbel nodded at us and put a finger to her lips before setting the pot back down on the hearth.
We knew enough to be silent. A promise, of sorts, had been given.
The kirk sat off on the side of the road, a small grey stone building. The women of the village had done careful plantings of wild-flowers by the door, the only bit of real color about the church. I had heard that the papists have colored windows in their chapels and cathedrals, as well as paintings of the Gospels on the inside walls. But we didn’t hold with such customs. I am not sure why.
By the time we arrived, the kirk was full. Not only were the village men crowded into the hard wooden pews, but many of their women came as well. The few children accompanying them fidgeted at the back, kicking the seats and giggling. There were also folk from villages farther down the glen who had had animals impounded. Some I recognized, but most were strangers. There must have been a hundred people in all.
The sun slanted through the windows, setting a pattern of light on the middle pews so there was no need for the lamps to be lit. Standing in front of the pulpit, Tam MacBride was telling everybody how he’d gone to Kindarry House to make his appeal, his hands relating the story a second time as he talked.
“I said to the laird I couldna pay the fine and the rent as well.” His short black beard seemed to bristle angrily with each word.
There was a low murmur of respect. Going to face the laird is never an easy task. At least not this laird.
“Aye, Tam, nor can any of us,” somebody put in, “no the way he’s raised the rents twice this past year alone.”
“‘Fine,’ says he,” Tam continued, as if no one had interrupted. His right forefinger punched the air. “‘Ye can have yer cattle or ye can have yer land. Ye take yer pick.’”
Another low murmur went through the huddled men.
“It was the same for me,” called out Colin Kinnell. He was Hamish’s father and even lankier and bonier than his son. “He said if I couldna keep my animals under control, I’d only myself to blame.”
“Blame?” one of the outlanders shouted. And the others echoed him. “Blame?”
Da stood up, his voice a low grumble. “So it’s cattle with nae land to graze on or land with nae means of livelihood.” He looked around. “That’s a hard choice.”
“That’s nae choice at all,” cried the outlander.
But no one had yet thought to ask how all our animals had strayed into the path of the laird’s sheep.
There was an angry uproar among the men, which Da waved to silence. “Look,” he said, “we know Daniel McRoy is no the man the old laird was. Not half. But he is still our chief, the head of our family. And like any father, he might say things he doesna hold to at second thought.”
I knew how true that was, how Da had sometimes refused us something when he was in a sour mood, then thought better of it later in the day after Ma had sweetened him. Or now, Ishbel, I thought. But who would soften this laird’s stance? Bonnie Josie had tried, and it only seemed to have strengthened his resolve to rid himself of his tenants.
“What are ye saying, Murdo Macallan?” Colin asked, standing and turning toward Da. “That we should wait around for the laird to change his mind?”
Da shook his head. “Nae, Colin. I’m saying we should send representatives to the laird to remind him of his responsibilities. We need to change his mind for him.” The way he said the word remind made a ripple of laughter go around the room.
“Bell the cat,” Colin said, and we all laughed because everyone knew that story.
Then Da turned and spoke to the rest of the men, his voice filling the kirk as much as the minister’s ever did. “Need I remind all of you that the blood of our ancient chieftains still runs in the laird’s veins, however thinly.”
“Thin indeed,” called out someone.
“Thin as watered whisky,” another voice added.
There was a large current of laughter now, but Da held up his hand again. “Thin his blood may be, but there’s still a bond between us that canna be broken. The laird holds the land, but we’re the ones that tend it for him. He canna just take our livelihood away.”
“Aye!” The single word was repeated all around the kirk like an echo beating off the whitewashed walls.
But, I thought, he already has. Just ask the folk of Glendoun. Still, I didn’t dare say it aloud. I was only a lad, after all. And lads, like women, are supposed to keep silent.
“Remember,” Da said, “remember how the old laird sent the sheep merchants packing when he saw his people at the door. Perhaps this laird will rise to his heritage.”
There was some grumbling, and someone shouted out, “We’ll see a trout rise in winter before that happens!”
But stocky Sandy Philipson piped up, “Ye’re right, Murdo. There’s still a bond between a chief and his people.”
What bond, I wondered, if he would even try and put his own niece out in the cold?
“Aye, presenting our grievances is better than doing nothing,” agreed Tam.
“It’s worse than doing nothing,” declared a new voice. “It’s falling to yer knees and begging. Nae like men but like weak old women.”
All heads turned, and there was a murmur of surprise as a tall, unshaven man in a wide-brimmed black hat stepped out of the shadows of the back of the kirk. He wore a long blue coat strapped around the middle with a leather belt and high military boots. There was a musket tucked under his right arm and a cluster of whisky jugs tied together with twine that hung from his left shoulder. He carried himself with an air of casual defiance that made him stand out against the grey inner walls of the kirk.
“I hadn’t thought to see ye here, Dunbar,” said Da.
Now I knew who he was: Alan Dunbar, the whisky runner. The English king had long ago banned the Highlanders from keeping weapons, but Dunbar had got his gun fighting as a soldier in the king’s pay.
I nudged Lachlan, and he turned to give me back a big-eyed stare.
“The Rogue o’ the Hills,” he whispered.
I nodded. We’d heard his name before, but neither of us had ever met him. I stared as he walked forward, his boots a slow drumbeat on the kirk floor. There was something big about him, bigger than any of the other men. And he’d dared to say aloud what I had only whispered to myself.
He spoke in time to each step, his voice echoing in the silent kirk. “When men get to blethering, there’s a thirst sure to follow.” He grinned and rattled the jugs under his left arm. “And a thirsty man is a ready market for my whisky.”
“You’ve the devil’s own nerve,” said Tam, “to come peddling your lawless brew here in God’s own house.”
“I force nae man to buy,” Dunbar responded innocently, “and any man who does is free to go to the excise man and pay the duty on his jar.”
“Which is more than ye’ll ever do,” said Da.
Dunbar was at the front of the kirk now, with his back to the communion table, and he stood still, slowly looking over the congregation. Then, as if preaching, he said in his strong voice, “The day the government does me a favor, that’s when they can have my payment.”
A few of the men laughed out loud.
“Ye all know my story.”
I leaned forward. I couldn’t take my eyes off him.
“I took the king’s shilling when only a lad and went off across the sea to fight the French and see off that wee corporal, Napoleon,” he said, as if telling a tale over a glass of whisky by the fire. “Five years of that, of blood running like mountain streams. And when I came home, was there a parcel of land waiting for me as promised?”
We were all silent, waiting. Even those who already knew his story.
Dunbar smiled, but there was no comfort in it. He shook his head. “Nae, there was nothing. Nothing! My family had been thrown off their farm to make way for sheep. For sheep! With no roof over their heads and no money in their purse, my ma
and da died in the hills that very winter, hand in hand in a snowdrift.”
“That was in Glengarry territory, not here,” said Da. “Here they’d have been taken in. No left to starve in the snow.”
I thought: And did we take in the lovely Fiona and her brothers?
Dunbar started to spit, thought better of it, and swiped his sleeve across his mouth. “It’s the same all over, Macallan. My story’s no so original. In Sutherland, Glengarry, or here, no one has a care the poor crofters are being turned out of their homes to make way for flocks of fat English sheep. Instead of being their protectors, their lairds have become their worst enemies. I’ll never again put my fate in anybody’s hands but my own. And if it’s men ye are, no puling, whining old women, ye’ll do the same.”
I could hear the children sneaking down the right side of the kirk to squeeze in next to their mothers, as if shrinking from a dark shadow that was closing in on us all.
“That’s a fine course for them that wants a bandit’s life,” said Tam, raising his voice, “but we’re all honest farmers here.”
Tam is right, I thought. Maybe I’m rushing to judgment.
Dunbar laughed scornfully. “Aye, like my father. An honest farmer and dead in the winter hills. Dinna be a fool, man. Ye’ll go on being honest while Daniel McRoy and Willie Rood go on robbing ye blind.”
“What they’ve done may be hard, but it’s within the law,” said Da.
“Aye, so I hear,” said Dunbar, “a law that punishes goats and cows for their transgressions.” He laughed, and it was a short, sharp sound. “Do none of ye honest farmers see what’s going on here?”
“Speak plain, Dunbar!” shouted a voice.
The sun suddenly disappeared behind a cloud and the whole kirk grew dark. No one moved to light a lantern, for all were hot blood and anger.
“I’m saying there’s all kinds of thievery,” Dunbar said, “and all kinds of thieves, some more honest than others.” He leaned forward toward the men in the pews. “Do ye think Rood and his men are above rounding up a few cows in the night while ye sleep? Did ye know that they drive yer beasts into the pastures themselves?” There was a sudden silence in the pews. “Or just take them straight to Kindarry to be impounded and say they were found on the hills?”
Suddenly everyone was talking at once, but low, like the sound I imagined the ocean would make, grumbling in its low bed. And I was swimming in that tide, swimming toward the Rogue. Of course. Now it all made sense. Why hadn’t I seen it?
Da took a deep, loud breath and said sternly, “Those are serious charges, Dunbar, and nae man here would dare lay them against his laird without proof.”
From the angry mutters that had followed Dunbar’s words, I wasn’t so sure that Da was right.
Dunbar shook his musket at Da. “His laird? His laird? Yer talking like it was a hundred years ago, Macallan,” he said, “when ye went to the laird for justice. This laird’s got nae interest in justice now. It’s yer money and yer land he wants, not yer loyalty. He’s got sheep for loyalty as long as there’s grass, and for all he cares, every man and woman here can be drowned in the sea. Dinna ye see it, man, the old ways are being destroyed while ye cower in the kirk and hope the minister willna mind ye meeting here.”
A new silence descended, and this time the air hung heavy with dark thoughts. Even the children were still.
Finally Dunbar grinned and lifted up his cluster of whisky jugs. “Now, is anybody thirsty enough to buy?”
One man tried to step forward, but his wife pulled him back. “No in the kirk, ye daftie,” she whispered, but loud enough so everyone could hear, “or God will strike ye dead.”
“It’s all right, Fergus,” Dunbar told him with a wink. “I’ll see ye get yer supply at the usual place.” He looked around at the other men. “And the rest of ye as well, if yer too shy to buy here.”
“Yer a fine one to talk to us about the laird, Dunbar,” said Da. “It’s clear yer only here to line yer own pocket. Well, we’ll deal with our problems without yer advice or yer whisky.”
With a shrug, the Rogue hefted his musket and his whisky. He winked at Ishbel and me, saying loud enough for everyone to hear, “If ye willna act like men, ye may as well drink like sots.” Then he turned on his heel and headed back up the aisle and out the door at a jaunty pace. He left the door wide open, and many eyes followed him—mine especially—and a few voices grumbled at his departure.
A child cried out, “I’m hungry, Ma.”
As if that were some kind of signal, the women gathered their children and funneled out the open door.
Tam went to light the lamp near the pulpit, and its feeble light sent shadows racing about the front of the kirk.
“Now the entertainment’s gone, we need to pick a deputation,” said Da, calling everybody’s attention back to the matter at hand. “Nae more than a dozen men. We mustna be taken for a mob or that will make matters worse.” There was a small rumble of approval, and he added, “We’ll put it to the laird that he must reconsider what he’s done, for the good of the clan and his own immortal soul.”
“Nae!” cried a voice. “The Rogue is right! This laird will never listen. Nor will he ever change.”
Da stared hard at the congregation through the fading light, anger and disbelief warring in his face. “Was that ye speaking, Roddy?”
I bit my lip and stood, but I couldn’t take back what I’d just said. The Rogue had been right. He’d shown us the way. “Aye, Da, it was me.” I said my piece and would stand by it, even if Da whipped me with his belt, for I’d only spoken the truth, and well he knew it.
There was a sudden silence in the kirk as if God himself had decreed that all the men be mute. I started to tremble. What had I begun? I wondered. What had I begun?
8 SUPPER AND GRAVES
Da’s scowl was thundery as the sky outside. Shadows made his face dark. “Curb that tongue, laddie. Only grown men are allowed to speak in kirk.”
“Maybe we should hear the lad out,” said Tam, “since we’re talking here, no praying.” Then, without waiting for Da to agree, he leaned forward and said to me, “What do ye mean, Roddy, that Alan Dunbar is right about the laird?”
Whatever spirit had made me bold enough just a moment before began to waver like a dying candle, but I recalled my encounter at the Lodge, and that stoked my anger. Though the kirk was chilly, I was afire with the memory.
“I’ve been to the Lodge,” I said, my voice soft, though all leaned toward me to listen. “I’ve heard the laird speak about us as if we were dumb beasts. ‘Ignorant rabble,’ he called us. He said, ‘We might as well have sheep in their place and do without the inconvenience of the rabble’s dirt and noise.’” I took a deep breath and went on. “And I’ve seen Bonnie Josie defy him to his face, and she only a lass.”
Da folded his arms over his chest. His face was awful to behold, dark and with a deep crease between his eyes. “Well, now ye’ve made a start of it, son, go on with it.”
I took a deep breath and thought about Bonnie Josie and her mother and how they’d called me a terrier. Then I put my teeth into the thought, shook my head with it, and began again, this time louder.
“As little as he cares for us, the laird cares less for his own kin. I saw that with my own eyes, heard it with these two ears.” I took another deep breath, my heart hammering so fast beneath my breastbone, I was sure everyone could see it. “He wants to take from Bonnie Josie and her mother the little the old laird left them, because they’ve given refuge to the Glendoun folk.”
There was a rustling all around me as the men reacted to this.
“That’s as may be,” said Colin, “but what can we do about it?”
Suddenly my hammering heart went quiet, my voice grew firmer. “If ye’ve given up already, what have ye come here for?” I felt a growing strength, as if the Rogue had left a part of his courage behind for me.
“Tell them,” Lachlan whispered. Then louder, he said, “Roddy, tell them abou
t the sheep.”
I wasn’t sure what he wanted me to say, but I began anyway, looking at the men one at a time as I spoke, every one of them but Da. “My brother, Lachlan, and I were in the glen when the Cheviot sheep arrived. I admit when I first saw them pouring over the hillside, I was afraid. But then, when they were all about us, I could see they were just dumb animals. And so we started to chase them off.”
“Aye, and ye took a knock from Willie Rood for yer trouble,” said Colin.
I glanced at Da, but he had fallen silent. I couldn’t tell if he approved of my words or if he was leaving me to make a fool of myself and face my punishment later.
“The point is …,” I said, “that everybody is acting like those sheep are something to be scared of, like they canna be stopped any more than a flood or a storm. At Culloden our grandfathers charged the English cannon. Bravely right into the fire. We’ve heard that tale over and over. My da told me of their courage many times. Are we all too soft now to shake our fists at some English sheep when our grandas took on the English cannon?”
“At Culloden they all died,” somebody called out.
“Aye, but like men,” Tam said, loudly and with feeling.
“This is nae battle,” Da objected at last. “It’s farming and business. There’s nowt to charge.”
“If we let the sheep in here as they are in Glendoun,” I told him, “it willna be long before there’s no place for any of us on Kindarry land. There’ll be nothing but sheep and a laird growing fat on the profit he takes from them.” I bit my lower lip, then charged ahead. “Lachlan and I chased the sheep as a game. But if we all worked together, we could drive them back to their English homes.”
“Drive them all the way back to England?” asked Colin. “We could never make it that far. And what would become of our farms while we were gone?”
“No all the way to England,” I said carefully. “Just to Kindarry House. If the laird loves the sheep so much, let him take care of them himself and give us our cattle back.”
