The Highwayman's Curse

by Nicola Morgan

  I dragged my eyes away. The older man was speaking again. I saw him press his fingers to his temples and shake his grey head from side to side, as if to throw off some pain.

  “Ye see, we’re thinking, what should we do wi’ such gentlemen as yourselves? My father is murdered – God rest his spirit – my grandson is sore hurt, and the sheep are taken. And so ye should be wondering why we have no’ killt ye already. Ye ken, for all that they dinna often agree, my older sons say ye should be drowned in the sea, and my own mother is fair distraught,” and at this he pointed to the old woman, who began to rock herself gently, though little sign crossed her face to show that she was mourning the old shepherd, her dead husband.

  He then pointed to another man, one who had brought us in, and who was leaning silently against the wall, scratching at his hands. He was an older man, of Jock’s age or thereabouts. He had the look of Thomas about him, with dark hair and close-set eyes under a heavy brow, though he was thinner, shorter, more wiry, his skin nut-brown and dry. “Mouldy will do as I say, being my brother and no’ of a decisive inclination. There are three folks only who ye should thank that ye are alive – Hamish, my youngest son, who hates all thieves and murderers but, being a particular God-fearing man and more devout than many, would say we must wait till the Sabbath has past. He will no’ have your blood spilt on the Lord’s Day but will flay the flesh off your bones on the morrow.”

  A man nodded from where he stood by the door, a pale-eyed man with curly, sand-coloured whiskers and a bald pate. He stood taller, straighter, than the others, though he carried some extra weight, being somewhat soft and rounded.

  Jock continued. “And then, o’ course, there’s Billy, my other son, who says ye should live, but what would poor Billy ken o’ such matters? Calum, my grandson, is too young to ken. And Jeannie, good Jeannie, my wife, is no’ sure ye are to blame. Soft she is, as women often are, and she would have the truth from Tam afore we kill ye, but Tam canna speak, and she fears for him, for his mind and his body. And I tell ye now,” and his eyes blazed of a sudden with a fearsome anger, like a fire that takes new strength from a gust of wind, “if he slips from this world, ye will pay the full price, Sabbath or no Sabbath.”

  The one called Mouldy spoke now. “Aye, and we’ll have no reivers here, no friends o’ gipsies. Nor no King’s men. Nor excisemen, nor English, nor lairds, nor Catholics, nor bishops nor any popery at all…”

  “Thank ye, Mouldy,” said the man, quietly.

  “Sorry, Jock,” said Mouldy, blushing and meek. He scratched and scratched at the back of his hands, rubbing and twisting them together. I saw dry red skin there, and another patch on his neck.

  Jock nodded. “My oldest son, Thomas, he says ye are English so ye must be after stealing our sheep. Why else would ye be there? Ye must be reivers, and reivers we canna abide.” Now he gestured towards the red-haired man, speaking to us again. “And my other son, he would have that ye are from Douglas Murdoch. And since that man is hated here more than reivers, that will go ill wi’ ye. Though whoever ye are, if ye killt my father, ye will surely die a terrible death at God’s hands.” He looked at us, trying to see into our hearts.

  “We know no man of that name,” I insisted.

  “Aye, well, ye would say such a thing, would ye no’?” A hawking sound came from the red-haired man who said this, and he spat onto the floor.

  Jock spoke again. “But I am thinking ye are too English and too educated in your voice, and Douglas Murdoch is no’ kent for such affectations. It is the only thing I can say well o’ him. He is the son o’ a Highland laird and has all the evils o’ those people. But he hates the English wi’ such a burning power that he wouldna have ye in his pay. Though ‘tis no’ just the English we should waste our venom on, but any man who will no’ put God above all else. If an Englishman worships God aright – though many dinna, preferring to worship the bishops – he may go to Heaven wi’ us.” Jock stared towards the roof, as though he would find God there.

  I knew not of what he spoke, except that it seemed perhaps my Englishness would not cause my death. As long as I did not worship bishops, which I had not thought on before. I knew there were bishops in my church but I would keep that to myself.

  The red-haired man could no longer keep silent. “Dinna argue and blether! Take them to the cave and have done wi’ it!”

  “No’ on the Sabbath,” said Jock firmly. “Have a mind to a place in Heaven.” He pointed with a weathered finger at his son, before turning back to us and continuing his speech.

  Now, of a sudden, pain crossed his eyes and he swallowed hard. He shook his head as though a cloud had fallen over his senses. But, just as quickly, his face cleared and he spoke again, to the young girl this time. “Give our guests a drink o’ whisky, Iona. They will have need o’ it afore this night is out. But no’ o’ermuch for ‘tis no good to be drunk o’ the Sabbath.”

  The girl continued to stir the pot a moment longer, and then stopped, a shrug of her thin shoulders as though she wished nothing to do with giving us a drink. And I must say I could not see why anyone should give us a drink before they killed us, though I was sore in need of both food and drink.

  Iona came towards us with an earthenware flagon, which she set on the table without grace or gentleness. Tossing her tumbling red hair behind one shoulder, she then fetched some pottery cups, which she proceeded to fill with an amber liquid that glinted gold in the firelight as it fell. Still she looked not at us. I did not like the set of her lips – though of a perfect shape, like a bow, they looked not to smile very much at all. Freckles spread across her nose and cheeks like sand. My sisters would have thrown up their hands in horror if they had found freckles on their skin – freckles were the mark of a person who has spent too much time outside, unprotected by a bonnet as ladies should be. No longer did I think as my sisters did, but still I found Iona’s looks strange, like something from the fairy world. Such green eyes, deep like a forest, could not be honest, I thought.

  Never had I seen such flame-red hair. It gleamed in the firelight, brighter by far than anything in the room. There was a beauty in her, if only she would smile.

  Thomas looked towards her with a father’s fondness. She hung her head a little, and he reached to touch her softly on the arm. I think she knew her prettiness very well, and would use it, and I did not much like such cunning.

  It had not escaped my attention that these people thought Bess to be a man. I could not at that time decide whether this was for good or ill. I thought it might help us were she to reveal herself, but perhaps it might make things worse. Who knew how these men might treat a young girl? I would bide my time and not act until it seemed right. Or necessary.

  The old woman with the terrible face had stopped her rocking movement now. Her eyes were closed.

  “Drink,” said Jock. “Ye may need it and I wouldna have it said that we care no’ for our guests.”

  “Afore we kill ’em,” muttered the man with the fiery hair. The rims of his eyes were bloody, inflamed by drink and the smoke and whatever anger he carried within him.

  Obediently we brought the cups to our lips. My own eyes began to water at the smell before ever my mouth had touched the liquid. I took a tiny sip and gasped at the power of that fire water. It burned my throat and I thought I could not breathe.

  “English!” said Jeannie, with a sniff, before turning back to stroking the forehead of Tam, who had now set up a constant soft moaning.

  Bess was affected by the drink as I was, and had difficulty not to choke and cough. I could not tell whether they meant us to enjoy their hospitality before they killed us or whether they wished us to become drunk as lords so that we might be easier to kill. Though I believed the latter to be the truth, we had little choice but to drink. When the liquid reached my stomach, as it quickly did, burning a path down my gullet like fire along a tar-soaked rope, I experienced a short moment of pleasure before my head began to spin further. Yet, within a few moments more, I felt
warm within and without. The taste on my tongue and through my nose was of peaty smoke and burning oil and of heat itself, if heat can have a taste, which I had never before thought.

  I looked around. Along one wall were wooden chests, and shelves with objects ranged in some semblance of order – pots on one, cups and plates on another. A few books lay on one – I know not why I noticed this; perhaps because I had not seen books since I left home and I was surprised to see them now. Bess could read and write, but I had seen no books in her cottage. Did these people read?

  At the other end of the room, away from the fire, a curtain was suspended from a rafter, which could make a private space if one were needed. I glimpsed another box-bed here. There was a small fireplace at that end of the cottage, though it was not lit now.

  On a trestle at that end of the dwelling lay what I suddenly knew was the corpse of the old shepherd, now wrapped decorously in a sheet, the face hidden.

  Near by, a large cupboard hung open, bundles of cloth or clothing on its shelves. Different sorts of dried plants hung from beams.

  The smoke, drifting upwards slowly, hung among the rafters, seeping into the heather-lined thatch.

  But I must try to think on a plan. I must keep my senses in check, not let the whisky take over my mind. I watched my captors, tried to measure them all, to judge their characters. The man called Jock took small sips from his cup, screwing his face up after each one, as though he drank without pleasure.

  Apart from the red-haired man, the men drank little, looking to Jock for guidance, yet their noise swelled until the place swarmed with splenetic oaths and blazing eyes, and a strange excitement which I did not at that time understand.

  Was it for our death? I thought so then.

  Chapter Nine

  At that time, warmed from within by the whisky and from without by the fire and the fug of bodies and breath, and yet with a chill fear crawling down the skin of my back, I began to think on tales I had heard of the wild Scottish people. Of brutal murder, the theft of girls, the slitting of an enemy’s throat, and the most terrible thing of all – trepanning, the gruesome punishment we heard of in cautionary tales, the terrible cruelty of drilling a hole in an enemy’s skull while he still lived. I had not thought much on it before. But now my mind dwelled on such things. If the Scottish people were as fearsome and cruel as the stories told, surely there would be no mercy for us.

  Gradually, more whisky was downed by the men and the noise swelled further. Thoughts of the Sabbath seemed to be disappearing fast. Jeannie scowled at them, looking at Jock, but Jock seemed not to notice any more. “Hush! Let the bairn sleep!” she chided them, to little effect.

  Iona had, I saw, been crying again for the loss of her great-grandfather, and Jeannie put her arm round the girl’s shoulders, giving her a small hug and murmuring a few words. Jeannie had a kindness to her face, a softness in the eyes, a roundness to her pinked cheeks. Though there was tiredness too, and sadness, of course.

  Every now and then I glanced at Bess. Her face showed no emotion. I know not if she was afraid or if she tried to think on a plan, but she simply stared in front of her, her eyes distant and glassy.

  One thing I did not understand – why had they brought us into this dwelling, if they meant to kill us? Would they do so here, in front of the women and Tam, once midnight passed and the Sabbath was over? How long might it be till midnight? Some hours, I knew, as I thought it was only late afternoon.

  I suppose even a condemned man receives a last meal and prisoners are fed and given water even if they are doomed to die. These men seemed intent on playing the part of hosts before they did whatever they planned to us. Meanwhile, it gave me the only chance we had. We could not escape, but we could persuade them to change their minds, could we not?

  “We did not kill him,” I said, as boldly as I could. “We found him dead, and the boy injured. And we saw no sheep.” I looked Jock in the eye. He stared back at me, no emotion showing. A growl came from one of the other men and I whipped round to see a hand fly towards my face. I ducked, but too slowly. His rough fingernails stung my cheek as they passed. It was the man with the red hair.

  “Red!” said Jeannie. “Let the laddie speak! We should find the truth or we are no better than them.” Red was the man’s name, then. Red by name and by nature.

  “If you kill us,” I continued, with more desperation than reason, “then the men who did this will yet be at large. They may return. My friend and I are handy with pistol and sword. We are two more men to join you.” I had no wish to fight their wars for them, but I could think of nothing else to say.

  “Pah! Bitty lads ye are! No stronger than my own son,” said Thomas. I thought at first he meant Tam but a movement in a dark corner away from the fire caused me to peer in that direction, and I saw the boy a little older than I. Nothing showed on his face. Thick hair flopped down, fringing his eyes, and he did not push it back. I thought he looked sullen and I sensed no fellow feeling, nothing that I could like.

  “Drown ’em, I say. Down the cave wi’ ’em,” said Red, his face split into a grin as he swallowed another mouthful of the whisky. He gestured with an arm towards one side of the dwelling, but I knew not why he did so. Jock raised his hand for silence.

  “We will find the truth. Let it no’ be said we are afeard o’ that. We are good men, no’ like some I might talk of. And God is our guide. What o’ the other lad? What d’ye say for yourself?”

  Bess had not spoken since we came into the dwelling. She did so now, her voice low, disguised in the way she knew well, so that they would not know that she was a girl. The gloomy glow in the room was not sufficient for them to guess that the smoothness of her cheeks was a mark of her sex, not her age. “My friend speaks the truth. We are guests in this country and you should not treat us in this way. Are we to meet our deaths after saving the life of your child? Is this the hospitality of Scottish people? My father was Scottish and he did not tell me this.”

  Her quiet voice held the room, and no one spoke. Even Red said nothing. The fire hissed and crackled and a dog yelped gently in its sleep. Only I knew that her voice lacked its usual bite. Had her spirit been doused by the whisky and by exhaustion? Or had she in truth given up? Her words were couched in reason, but the fire in them had gone out.

  But whether or not her words would have helped us, I know not. For at that moment, we heard hoofbeats outside. Mouldy scurried to the still-open doorway.

  “’Tis Mad Jamie!” he called over his shoulder.

  Within a few moments, in the doorway, leaning against the frame, bending over to catch his breath, stood a gasping, skinny, raggedy boy who spat over and over again to rid his mouth of excess fluid.

  Some of the men stood. Jeannie did so too. “Jamie, where’s the bonesetter? Where is he?”

  Mad Jamie simply shook his head, spittle flying everywhere. He wiped his huge hand across his wet mouth and stared in all directions. Thomas hurried towards him and dragged him to the table, where the smell of him came to me even over everything else. Its foul sweetness made my stomach rise.

  Jeannie took him by the shoulders. “Where is he, Jamie? Why will he no’ come?”

  “The wifie say no,” said Mad Jamie, his eyes wide, his head flopping back and forth as Jeannie shook him.

  “Woman, leave him be! Ye’ll kill him and there’ll be no good o’ it,” said Jock. He turned to Mad Jamie. “Jamie, lad, ye ken me, and ye ken I’ll no’ harm ye. Did ye see the man? Did ye see the bonesetter?”

  Jamie nodded his head.

  “And was he lying down, Jamie, lad?” Jamie nodded. “Was he drunk, Jamie?” Jamie paused before nodding again.

  There was a crash as Thomas smashed his cup down on the table. “Useless vermin!” he shouted.

  “No’ ye, Jamie,” said Jock in explanation, as Mad Jamie began to whimper in fear at Thomas’s anger.

  “We must send for another man,” urged Thomas now. “A doctor, anyone who can help Tam.”

 
; “Aye,” said Jock. “That we should. I was thinking o’—”

  At that moment, Tam cried out from where he lay by the fire and Jeannie ran back to him. His eyes were rolling in his head and his whole body shook horribly. Of a sudden, he arched his back and went limp. And the strangest thing – it may not seem possible, but I swear I saw it with my own eyes – was that his lips were blue, which I have never seen on a living person. The grey blue of a dead sea swelling before a storm. Jeannie lifted his head, placed her arm beneath his neck and pulled him towards her. He made not a sound now. And yet his chest still rose and fell, rose and fell. Though lightly, so lightly. I have heard tell of a person slipping away in just such a manner after fearful injury. I know not what it is called, but animals too can pass away through pain and fear, their wide eyes empty.

  Iona stopped turning her ladle in the pot and looked to her younger brother, fear in her swollen eyes. There was a stirring among the men, as of leaves rushing together while the equinoctial winds of autumn gather strength.

  I felt my arms pinned to my sides. Bess was grabbed by Red, his cheeks suffused with heat, the wiry strands of his beard against her face. Bess and I looked at each other. Her eyes showed little. I remembered times when the light in Bess’s eyes would stir my soul and burn my fears away. It would not do so now.

  The old woman sat in her chair, rocking a little. She seemed not to know or care what was happening in the room. Her arms were round her body as though she hugged herself and had no need of any other.

  Now Jock did not look at us. He turned to where Tam, his grandson, lay near death, and his face was troubled as much as I have ever seen in any man. He looked then towards the others, and to everyone else in that grim dwelling, and finally to us. “Take ’em down to the lower cave. ’Tis low tide – tie them to the wall and when the tide rises, they’ll drown, whether ’tis afore midnight or no’. And if God wants to spare them on the Sabbath, he can do such a thing. God rules the tides and…”