‘Is this true, Annie?’
‘True enough. I cried for days over the death of Mairi’s brother. He and Seonaid had a rare chance of happiness. The only chance she’ll ever have. I’ll not see the man who took that away from them score a victory when I can do something about it.’ Annie Hamilton looked at the vast congregation and groaned. ‘I believe I could have saved myself a fortune. Most were coming anyway.’
That morning, standing on a table placed in the entrance of the school, Wyatt preached the sermon of his life. Halfway through he was forced to break off and silence the spontaneous cheer that went up when John Garrett left the nearby kirk and rode away.
Cheers were unnecessary. The singing of a Gaelic hymn from a thousand throats reached out to taunt the factor when he was more than a mile away from the man he had set out to remove from office.
Forty-two
THREE DAYS AFTER his Eskaig parishioners had expressed their confidence in Wyatt and the church he now represented, Wyatt set off for Letterfinlay to find Coll Kennedy.
It was to be more than a social visit. Wyatt intended to ask Coll Kennedy to come to Eskaig to conduct his wedding to Mairi, set for two months’ time. There was no need to wait any longer. Although many problems were still to be overcome, the main one was behind him. The people had made their choice of minister and of the church to which they would belong.
Wyatt had called a meeting of his elders the previous evening and he found them in a rare mood of optimism. The doubts they had entertained about the future of the newly formed Free Church forgotten, the elders were loud in voicing self-congratulation on their foresight and wisdom.
Wyatt took advantage of their euphoria to obtain agreement to plans he had drawn up for a new building on the land the late Lord Kilmalie had given to him. It would embrace both church and school, with a small manse. There would not be a lot of land to spare, but in their present mood the elders were prepared to turn their hands to miracles.
It was a fine warm early-summer day, and Wyatt strode along the road happily humming a Wesley hymn. His happiness faded somewhat when he recognised a horseman travelling towards him as John Garrett.
As horse and rider drew near, Wyatt braced himself to receive a torrent of abuse. Instead Garrett passed by staring straight ahead, the expression on his face as tight as a drumhead.
Garrett had gone some ten horse-lengths past, when Wyatt turned and called to him: ‘Factor! I’d like a word with you.’
John Garrett reined in his horse, but refused to turn around. He sat stiff and upright in his saddle, looking towards Eskaig until Wyatt reached him.
‘What happened on Sunday was a victory for the Free Church, Factor, not a defeat for you or Angus Cameron. It was tangible evidence of what thinking church leaders have been saying for years. State interference in worship is bitterly resented. It’s this I want to talk to you about. You saw for yourself the strength of feeling for the Free Church. If you were to allow us to worship in the kirk, the gesture would be deeply appreciated by all of Lord Kilmalie’s tenants.’
John Garrett looked at Wyatt with loathing. ‘Are you suggesting I should pander to the wishes of a few … peasants, after they’ve deliberately and publicly humiliated me?’
‘I’ve already said there was nothing personal in what they did. They were exercising their duty to worship the Lord in the way they believe is right. I’m asking you only to make a gesture of goodwill. One that would cost nothing.’
‘Their duty is to Lord Kilmalie. Without his goodwill they’d have no land, no work – and no homes. They’ve shown how little loyalty they have for his Lordship. You remind them of that when they’re paid back in kind.’
‘I had hoped we might talk this matter out sensibly and reasonably, Factor. I have the welfare of my parishioners at heart. You are employed to safeguard the interests of Lord Kilmalie’s estate. The two are not incompatible.’
‘They weren’t before you came to Eskaig. Minister Gunn and I worked together for many years in full agreement. Since you arrived there’s been more trouble than Eskaig has ever known. You’ve turned Kilmalie tenants against me, and against their church. I don’t doubt that you and that scheming teacher of yours also had something to do with the attack on the sheriff’s men from Fort William. I’ll make certain Lord Kilmalie’s tenants know who to blame when their ingratitude reaps its reward – and it will, I promise you. They’ll rue the day they listened to you. You’ll be left wondering what happened to all the converts you claim to have made.’
John Garrett kicked his heels sharply into his horse’s flanks, and the animal was startled to instant movement, leaving Wyatt gazing after horse and rider.
Wyatt’s happy state of mind had taken a battering. He should have known better than to appeal to Garrett’s better nature. The factor was quick to take offence at a slight, imagined or otherwise, and he was slow to forgive. It had been a forlorn whim-of-the-moment attempt at a reconciliation between the Kilmalie tenants and the factor. Wyatt tried to shrug off the disappointment he felt. At least it had probably left Garrett feeling better for having won the brief verbal encounter.
It was twenty miles from Eskaig to Letterfinlay, through some of the Highlands most spectacular countryside. For eight miles the track ran alongside the Caledonian Canal, a great feat of engineering skill linking the deep-water lochs of the Great Glen, providing a safe passage from east coast to west.
Wyatt kept pace with a small steam-powered tug along the narrower part of the canal before the tug’s captain called out to ask where Wyatt was going. When he replied he was on his way to Letterfinlay, the captain brought his vessel in close to the bank and offered Wyatt passage to his destination.
The Eskaig preacher was spared a long walk. Even so, it was afternoon before the tugboat captain waved a cheery farewell to Wyatt, after putting him ashore at Letterfinlay.
Wyatt had no difficulty locating the church. Tiny as it was, the building dominated the cluster of houses sprinkled haphazardly along the water’s edge. The men here were mostly fishermen, although there were a number of crofts to be seen nestling among trees along the steep slope of the mountains on this side of Loch Lochy.
There was nothing to say which of the buildings was the manse, none being in any way superior to its neighbour. Wyatt made his way to the church, only to find his way barred by a stout chain and padlock securing the door. It seemed Coll Kennedy had also been barred from his church.
Behind one of the houses Wyatt found an old man at work repairing a salmon-net. The man had a clay pipe clenched between his teeth and, for some reason best known to himself, the pipe was upside down.
When Wyatt enquired after Coll Kennedy, the old fisherman’s eyes came up to give Wyatt a brief but thorough appraisal before continuing with his work.
‘Would you be the new minister, maybe?’ The answer was slow in coming.
‘No, I have my own living in Eskaig. I’m a friend of Minister Kennedy.’
This prompted another blue-eyed look from the aged fisherman. ‘Maybe you are; but then again, you’re maybe not.’
While Wyatt was pondering on a reply to this enigmatic remark, the fisherman spoke again, smoke leaking from between yellowing teeth. ‘Are you for the new kirk or the old one?’
‘I’ve joined the Free Church, the same as Minister Kennedy. Do you know where I might find him?’
‘I know where you will find him, but I needed to know your church before I directed you. If I sent you the quickest way, you’d pass the landlord’s house. General Lindsay’s strong for the old church, and quick with his sporting-gun. The way I’ll send you will lead you through Mad Macquarrie’s territory. I don’t know how partial he is to the new church, but he could never stand the old one.’
The old man pointed north-eastwards, where the mountains ran alongside the loch in a seemingly unbroken chain. ‘Go along there until you come to the third wee burn. Follow it up the mountain; it’s steep, but when you near the top you’ll see a sa
ddle between two peaks. Go through, but stay on the ridge until you meet with Mad Macquarrie. Ask him where to find Minister Kennedy.’
‘What if I miss this Macquarrie?’
‘You’ll not even need to look for him, Minister. Mad Macquarrie will find you. Leastways, his dogs will. It’s said he has a cave in the hillside up there somewhere, but no one has ever got past his dogs to find out. A word of warning to you. When the dogs find you, just stay where you are until Mad Macquarrie reaches you. They’ll not harm you if you do as I say.’
‘And if I don’t?’
‘They’ll tear you to pieces for certain.’ The old man smiled, the upside-down pipe still held fast between his teeth. ‘Wouldn’t you prefer to belong to the old church for an hour or two and go past General Lindsay’s house? After all, even Peter told a lie about which side he was on. I don’t recall the good Lord holding a grudge because of it.’
‘I fancy Saint Peter might have been more valuable to the Lord than a poor Highland minister. Have those dogs really been known to tear anyone apart?’
‘No. At least, no one’s returned to brag of it. You’ll be taking the mountain path, then, Minister?’ When Wyatt nodded, the old fisherman said: ‘You’ll be all right. When you meet up with Mad Macquarrie, say you were sent by Old Joe the fisherman. Tell him I said you were to say there were deer seen on Beith Og only yesterday. If his dogs pull one down, I’ll expect something for the pot. Good day to you now, Minister. It’s a fine day to be going visiting.’
As Wyatt laboured up the mountainside he could not make up his mind whether the old fisherman had been having a joke at his expense with his talk of ‘Mad Macquarrie’. He might be sitting at the lochside right now, chuckling at his success in sending a gullible preacher off on a long and fruitless journey. Wyatt took scant comfort from the knowledge that the old man had not lied about the steepness of the mountain slope.
The ‘saddle’ between the two peaks was not apparent until Wyatt had conquered the steep slope. Passing through to the far slope as directed by the old fisherman, Wyatt found himself gazing down into a steep-sided glen which had a river wending its way along the glen floor.
There was a croft in the valley, almost immediately below him, but the mountainside was far too steep to attempt to go straight down to it. Another, larger building could be seen farther along the valley. Wyatt decided to follow the ridge in this direction, as the old fisherman had suggested.
Wyatt was beginning to think Mad Macquarrie was, after all, a hoax when he heard the deep bark of a dog. It sounded alarmingly close! Then he saw the animal, and three or four more with it. The colour of weathered granite, the dogs must have been lying among the rocks of the peak ahead of him.
The animals were large. Frighteningly large. Each must have weighed as much as a small man and stood half as high. Wyatt’s instinct was to run, but he remembered the old fisherman’s warning. He had not been wrong so far. Wyatt hoped his accuracy extended to knowing the dogs’ habits.
Watching the dogs bounding towards him, Wyatt realised it would have been useless to run. Bred to hunt down deer, the dogs would have caught him before he had gone a hundred paces.
The dogs behaved exactly as the net-repairing fisherman had predicted. Bounding right up to Wyatt, they bumped and jostled each other as they gambolled about him. One even came close enough to place a wet nose to his hand in apparent friendliness. However, when Wyatt raised his hand to pat the animal, the dog’s ears went back and it showed formidable yellow teeth in a snarl that was echoed by the other dogs in the small pack.
Wyatt remained still as a strange figure advanced upon him along the ridge. Small and slight and accompanied by yet another of the great deerhounds, the man was dressed in a strange mixture of deerskin and sackcloth. He also wore an ancient and threadbare red tartan plaid slung over his left shoulder. It was difficult to observe his face. A shock of grey hair and an unkempt beard served to hide all but the man’s eyes and nose.
In his hands the man carried a long-barrelled flintlock musket, of a pattern used by the British army on the battlefields of the world a hundred years before.
Wyatt knew he was about to meet Mad Macquarrie.
The man stopped six feet in front of Wyatt, cuffing away the dogs that crowded around him, tails wagging affectionately.
‘A preacher! l might have guessed. There are more preachers than rabbits in the mountains these days. All are either running from the old kirk or looking for converts to the new one. Which are you?’
The strangely-attired mountain man’s voice was not that of a vagabond. Eccentric Macquarrie might be, but Wyatt knew he was talking to an educated man.
‘I’m a Free Church minister, but I’m neither running nor seeking converts. I came here from Eskaig to find an old friend: Minister Coll Kennedy. I met someone in Letterfinlay – Old Joe? He said you’d know the whereabouts of Minister Kennedy.’
‘Did he now?’ Mad Macquarrie put his head to one side, bird-like. ‘Well, you could be telling me the truth. More likely it’s a ruse to learn where Preacher Kennedy is holding his services now they’ve locked him out of kirk and manse.’
Mad Macquarrie shifted the position of the long-barrelled musket, and Wyatt found himself staring into a barrel that would have satisfied the most finnicky army musketry sergeant.
‘Old Joe also told me to tell you that deer were sighted on Beith Og yesterday. If you took one, he’d appreciate something for his cooking-pot. ’
Mad Macquarrie chuckled and, much to Wyatt’s relief, the barrel of the musket returned to the crook of the man’s arm.
‘Old Joe wouldn’t have suggested I kill a deer if he’d thought you were a landowner’s man. What’s your business with Coll?’
‘I’d like to see how things are faring with him. I also want to ask him to conduct a wedding in Eskaig.’
Some of the suspicion returned to Mad Macquarrie’s eyes. ‘I thought you said you were the preacher there?’
‘So I am, but I can’t officiate at my own wedding.’
‘I suppose not. Too much “can” and “can’t” attached to a church marriage. More than enough to frighten off a simple man like me. Pity, it means some woman’s missing a rich experience.’
Mad Macquarrie turned away before Wyatt could determine whether or not he was joking.
‘You know the way to the cave at Fintaig – Upper Fintaig?’
Wyatt shook his head.
Mad Macquarrie sniffed loudly. ‘Then, you’ll not be a drinking man. Tam Vass has a still there. His whisky would bring the angels down from heaven.’
Wyatt grinned. ‘You need say no more. That’s where I’ll find Coll Kennedy.’
‘I see you do know him. He has a service there two or three nights a week. Not on a Sunday, though. The landowner has his men checking the names of those who go to the old kirk every Sunday. He’s threatened that anyone who’s not there will be run clear out of the Highlands. So Coll has weekday services instead. He gets just as many as in the old kirk. Matter of fact, I might go there myself one of these days.’
‘You’re a Free Church man?’ Wyatt tried to hide his surprise. He would not have looked upon Mad Macquarrie as being a religious man.
‘No, but I get a terrible thirst talking to preachers who come here seeking out Coll Kennedy. He’s had more visitors since he shifted his kirk to Tam Vass’s cave than he ever did at Letterfinlay.’
Turning his attention to the dogs, Mad Macquarrie spoke to them as though they were children, detailing them to specific positions on the mountain ridge. Wyatt watched in amazement as each dog went to its allotted position. Once there it lay down and became indistinguishable from its surroundings.
‘That’s marvellous,’ said Wyatt as he fell in step beside the man and the one dog that had never left his side. ‘How long will they stay there?’
‘As long as I’m away. If I left the mountains for a week, I’d come back and find them exactly where I’d put them.’
Th
ere was a pride in his voice when he said: ‘If the landowner could find men or soldiers to obey him in that way, I’d be driven from the Highlands. Until he does, I’m the laird up here.’
Forty-three
THE WHISKY-STILL owned by Tam Vass was in a cave high above the glen floor, although Coll Kennedy held his service close to the riverbank, far below.
Coll Kennedy had given Wyatt a warm welcome and declared he would be delighted to officiate at the Eskaig wedding. Furthermore, the Letterfinlay preacher declared it to be the first good thing to happen to him since the two ministers had returned from Edinburgh.
The patron of the Letterfinlay church felt it incumbent upon him to make things as difficult as possible for the only minister on his vast land-holding who dared to dissent. Barred from church and manse, Coll Kennedy had been harried from one preaching site to another before Tam Vass offered him sanctuary in his distillery. The site was an open secret to everyone except Revenue officers and landowners, but Vass assured the minister the patron would not seek him here.
Coll Kennedy could not have found a site better-suited to his personal tastes, although he would have wished for somewhere more accessible for those worshipping under the auspices of the Free Church.
However, the essential secrecy, coupled with the distances they had to cover, did not deter Minister Kennedy’s congregation. Wyatt swore their long trek to the remote valley must have whetted their appetite for the teachings of the Lord.
Mad Macquarrie, who had been listening to the conversation, suggested it was more likely to be Tam Vass’s whisky whetting their Highland thirsts.
Whatever it was brought the congregation to the spot, they took part in a service that few would ever forget. The grandeur of the Highland mountains would have made the mightiest man-made cathedral shrink into insignificance, while the music of the nearby mountain river could never be reproduced by an instrument.
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