His Bloody Project

by Graeme Macrae Burnet

  Mr Sinclair smiled at this and replied that he did not. Nevertheless, Mr Thomson called the gaoler and kept him stationed by the door. He then quite slowly and deliberately pulled back the chair from my writing table and sat down, placing one foot on the plank bed and leaning his elbow on his knee.

  ‘Now, Roderick,’ he began, ‘it seems you have made an excellent job of drawing the wool over Mr Sinclair’s eyes.’

  I did not say anything because his statement did not appear to require an answer.

  ‘I am sorry to say, however, that I am of quite different stock from your learned advocate. I have examined hundreds, thousands of your type and I’m afraid that I see you for exactly what you are. I’m afraid you will have a good deal more difficulty hoodwinking me.’

  I felt quite affronted to hear Mr Thomson abuse Mr Sinclair in this way, but I did not think it prudent to enter into debate with him.

  ‘Nevertheless,’ he continued, ‘as I have travelled some distance to examine you, we should get down to business.’

  The gentleman got to his feet and carried out a minute examination of my person, all the time making notes in a little book he must have brought for this purpose, and now and again muttering to himself as he went about his task. No animal at market has ever been subjected to such an intimate inspection, but I submitted to his various proddings and instructions without demur.

  His examination complete, he resumed his seat, again resting his foot on my bunk. ‘I now propose to put some questions to you, which I would be obliged if you could answer as fully as you are capable,’ he said. ‘Mr Sinclair has assured me that you have a good grasp of language and are able to express yourself quite lucidly, so let’s see, shall we?’

  I found my gaze wandering to the gaoler, who was stationed behind Mr Thomson and showed no sign of following the gentleman’s conversation. His eyes were directed towards the small window high on the wall above me and I reflected again that it must be quite as unpleasant for him to be confined within these walls as it was for me. My eyes wandered towards the window and after some time I became aware that I had not been following the questions which Mr Thomson had put to me. I returned my gaze to him. He had taken his foot from my bed and was sitting stiffly as if his back was giving him trouble. He fell silent and then stood up. The gaoler stood aside and Mr Thomson left without bidding me good day. The gaoler closed the door and turned the key in the lock. I felt then that I might perhaps have treated the gentleman with some discourtesy. I did not regret doing so for his sake, as I had not taken to him from the outset, but I felt that Mr Sinclair might be disappointed in me and for that I felt some remorse.

  * * *

  My father did not speak to me for several days after the Gathering. I do not know if he had heard about my antics at the inn, but in our community few events go unnoticed or unremarked upon. Jetta, too, addressed me only when necessary, and when she did it was in a curt tone to which I was not accustomed. Whether this was due to her disapproval of my behaviour or on account of some troubles of her own I cannot say. Our meals were eaten in silence and the atmosphere in the house was blacker than ever. There was a general sense of dread, as if we were all aware that events were soon to draw to their conclusion.

  I nightly expected the appearance of Lachlan Broad at our threshold, but he did not come. However, the knowledge that our visit to the factor and my foolish advances towards his daughter would not go unanswered weighed heavily on me. It is not the blow that causes greatest distress, but the anticipation of it, and I existed at this time in a state of anxiety which increased with each passing day. I was not called upon to work on any of Lachlan Broad’s schemes, and neither he nor any of his kinsmen so much as ventured beyond the junction of the village. I was quite certain that what was in store for us was not the raising of some petty fine, but the culmination of the constable’s campaign against us.

  I passed as little time as possible in the house. The days I spent pulling weeds and attempting to improve the prospects for our harvest, but I did so half-heartedly and if I downed tools and wandered off, my father did not question or chastise me. In the evenings I took myself into the hills and sat looking down on Culduie. Viewed from far above, the township seemed no more than a child’s toy. The people and livestock were no larger than specks of ash and it was difficult to credit that anything which occurred there was of any consequence. I thought of what lay beyond the mountains, of the great cities to the south, and, to the west, the vast Atlantic with its promise of Canada. I found myself wondering if I might after all make a new life for myself. In one thing Flora was quite correct – there was nothing for any of us in Culduie. Why then should I stay? All that was required was to set out one morning and never return. This was, at first, no more than an idle thought, but in the hours I spent on the Càrn it began to take hold of me. I was not yet a prisoner. There were no walls to prevent me from striking out. I need only set one foot in front of the other. First to Camusterrach, then on to Applecross and then over the Pass to the metropolis of Jeantown.†† From there, I might catch a boat or simply continue walking. I would bid no farewells. Nor would I formulate any plan, for beyond the Pass I knew nothing of the world. Over a period of days, this idea thickened within me until it had assumed the proportions of an irresistible force.

  And so it happened that on a perfectly ordinary morning, I left the house and made my way down through the rig, clambered over the dyke and set off. I did not acknowledge to myself that I was leaving. I told myself I was merely setting off towards Camusterrach. From there I might continue or turn back. I had taken no possessions or even food, for to do so would be to admit to myself what I was doing. I said nothing to Jetta and I did not allow myself to think, as I watched her stirring porridge at the swee, that I would never see her again. As I reached the brow of the hill which would take Culduie out of view, I resisted the urge to look back. In order to empty my mind, I counted my steps aloud and in this way I walked the mile to Camusterrach. There I passed Reverend Galbraith on the road. He did not greet me and I wondered if, later, when I had not returned, he would recall seeing me.

  At the outset I ambled along unhurriedly, but as I left Camusterrach behind, my pace increased. As the distance between Culduie and myself grew, I experienced a feeling of lightness. When I reached Applecross, I realised I had been running, and so as not to draw attention to myself I slowed to a walk. My progress along the village was observed by a few crones stationed on benches outside their houses. Then, as I neared the inn, I spotted Archibald Ross on the road ahead, in conversation with a thickly bearded man I recognised as the blacksmith. A dog circled at their feet. Not wishing to meet my friend, I stepped into the gap between two houses. After a few moments, I craned my head around the quoin. Archibald was now approaching, the dog at his heels. There was no escape to the rear of the house, so rather than be discovered lurking between the houses, I stepped out, adjusting my breeches as if I had been relieving myself. Archibald did not seem the least taken aback to see me appear in this way.

  ‘Well, the pugilist returns! That was a fearful beating you took,’ he said, laughing. ‘But no disgrace in it. The fellow was twice your size.’

  I did not say anything.

  ‘What business brings you to Applecross?’

  I told him that I was on an errand for my father.

  ‘An errand?’ he repeated. ‘What kind of errand?’

  ‘A family matter,’ I said.

  ‘I see,’ he replied gravely. ‘And you do not trust your friend with the particulars? Well, never mind. I am sure you will not refuse me the pleasure of your company for a glass of ale.’ He jerked his thumb in the direction of the inn.

  I knew very well that if I entered the inn my resolve would swiftly dissipate and excused myself from Archibald’s invitation.

  ‘I cannot believe,’ he protested, ‘that your errand can be so pressing that you would leave an old friend hig
h and dry.’

  ‘I must go to Jeantown,’ I said.

  ‘But that is eighteen miles away,’ Archibald exclaimed. ‘You cannot think to walk that distance over the Pass.’

  ‘I intend to spend the night there,’ I said.

  ‘But you must get there first.’ He pondered my dilemma for a moment and then, taking me by the elbow, led me along the village. ‘We will fetch you a garron,’ he said, excited by his plan. ‘You can ride to Jeantown and bring it back on your return. You come back tomorrow?’

  I nodded dumbly.

  ‘All the better!’ he said.

  ‘But I have no money to pay for a garron,’ I said.

  He waved away my protests.

  ‘Leave it to Archibald Ross,’ he said. ‘I have no doubt you will find some way to re-pay me in the future.’

  He was then struck by the idea that the following evening, once I had returned the pony, we could take some ale in the inn.

  ‘Then perhaps you will feel able to tell me about your mysterious errand,’ he said.

  I had no choice but to accompany Archibald to the courtyard behind the Big House where I had first made his acquaintance. He strutted across the cobbles with impressive assurance and put his head inside the stable door. Presently a hand appeared beneath the stone archway.

  ‘Have a pony saddled for Mr Macrae here,’ Archibald said without explanation.

  The hand, who was perhaps fifty years old, looked askance at me, but he did not demur. As we waited in the courtyard, Archibald filled his pipe and lit it. His dog sat at his feet and gazed at him with great devotion. It struck me that Flora might currently be employed in the kitchens, so I leaned against the wall to conceal myself from the window. Archibald instructed me to make sure the pony was properly fed and watered before my return journey. After some minutes the hand led out an ancient piebald garron. Archibald slapped it roughly on the haunch and invited me to mount it, which I did with some difficulty. Any pleasure I might have felt (for there was nothing I had ever wished for more than to ride a pony) was entirely spoiled by the situation I found myself in. Archibald walked me to the front of the Big House and sent me on my way with another hearty smack to the pony’s rear and a declaration that we would drink the inn dry the following night.

  The garron plodded forward at no more than walking pace. I tried digging my heels into its sides as I had seen other riders do, but it refused to quicken its tempo. No matter, as we trekked back towards the village I assessed the courses of action open to me. My first thought was simply to tether the garron at the junction which led to the Pass and continue on foot. An abandoned pony would quickly garner attention, however, and I imagined a party being quickly assembled to apprehend me. I had to remind myself that I was not a fugitive. Was I not free to go wheresoever I pleased? I was not in breach of any law or regulation, and if I wished to ride to Jeantown on a pony loaned by a friend, it was no concern of the powers-that-be or anyone else. Indeed, to Lachlan Broad my exile would no doubt be a matter of satisfaction. Even to my father it would likely be a blessing. My existence had not prevented any of the tribulations which had befallen us. In truth, it had been my own actions and foolishness which had brought about a great deal of our troubles and my continued presence in Culduie would do nothing to avert whatever ills were to come. It was with these thoughts that I continued on horseback beyond the junction and began the slow ascent to the Pass.

  It became apparent, too, that Archibald Ross was quite correct. To walk the eighteen miles over the Pass would have been quite impractical, not only because of the distance involved, but also because on foot I would have cut a far more conspicuous figure. Riding a pony, even one as ancient and lame as mine, bestowed a certain authority. Those individuals I passed on the road simply bid me good morning or even touched their caps to me. No one (as I had imagined they would) interrogated me about my destination or accused me of stealing my mount. I began to feel as I ascended higher into the mountains that Archibald’s intervention had been a matter of great providence; that this was, after all, what was intended for me. As the road became more deserted, I allowed myself to contemplate what might lie in store beyond Jeantown. No doubt, as Archibald had said, there were no end of opportunities in the cities to the south. I might establish myself in some employment there and in so doing prove myself of far greater worth to my family than had I stayed to await our fate. I might even be able to send home funds to raise my family out of their abject state. In time, perhaps Jetta could join me and we could live in comfort and happiness. Such thoughts, however, did not detain me for long.

  Towards the head of the Pass, the air grew frigid. The wind buffeted tussocks of brown grass by the roadside. The garron’s head dropped lower and his pace grew heavier. I dismounted by a burn to allow him to drink a little. I was by this time cold and hungry and cursed myself for not filling my pockets with bannocks before I left the house. I pulled my cap low over my eyes and continued on foot, leading the garron by the reins. It took some hours to reach the head of the Pass. I sat down on a boulder and gazed out at the grey vista before me. The road twisted downwards through a craggy glen. Beyond that was a stretch of water. I do not know what I had expected to find, but the scene before me filled me with a kind of dread. I realised that I had no idea where I was going or, if I ever reached Jeantown, I had no real idea of what I would do there. Certainly the shilling in my pocket would not take me very far. Perhaps I could find some outbuilding to sleep in and some scraps of food to eat, but this prospect did not fill me with joy. No matter how wretched my life in Culduie, I had no wish to live like a mendicant. I thought then of Jetta, who would certainly have missed me by now, and I imagined how unhappy my desertion would make her. And I felt keenly how contemptible it was to have thought to leave. Like a tethered dog, I had reached the limits of my territory. I climbed onto the garron and dug my heels into his flanks, but the exhausted beast refused to move. I dismounted and with some effort coaxed him to follow me back down the Pass. It was late in the afternoon before we reached Applecross.

  Not wishing to meet Archibald Ross, I approached the Big House with even greater trepidation than usual. In order to placate him I had concocted a story that the fellow I was to see in Jeantown had in fact met me on the road, thus allowing me to return that same day. It mattered little to me whether Archibald would believe such a preposterous tale, but in any case, he did not appear. The sound of the garron’s hooves on the cobbles brought the hand from the stables. He took the reins from me without a word and I thanked him for the use of the pony.

  I felt terribly weary as I approached Culduie, both from the exertions of the day and from the certainty that there was now no escape from whatever providence had in store. Set against this, whatever my father had to say about my absence was a matter of indifference to me. I wanted nothing other to lay down on my bunk and sleep. As I stepped over the threshold, I was surprised to see a black-clad figure seated at the table with his back to the door. I recognised him by his close cropped hair as Reverend Galbraith. My father was at the head of the table. Jetta was loitering by the dresser like a dark ghost. Even in the dim light, her face was pale. I assumed that the minister had come to report his sighting of me in Camusterrach that morning, but this was not the case. On the table was a sheet of parchment, folded in thirds and bearing a broken wax seal.

  The minister instructed me to sit and then said, ‘Your father has today received this letter.’

  He reached across the table and pushed it towards me with his fingertips. His knuckles were gnarled and swollen. I took up the paper and unfolded it. As the light was insufficient to read, I took the letter to the fire. It was written in an elegant hand and headed with the words, underlined, ‘Notice of Eviction’. I do not recall the precise wording of the letter, but it first named my father (‘the tenant’) and specified the extent of the croft, house and outbuildings. It then stated that the factor, through the autho
rity vested in him by the laird, hereby gave notice for the tenant to quit the said property by the 30th day in September 1869, this date being determined to permit the tenant time to lift the crops from the ground. There followed a list of grounds for eviction: failure to maintain the croft to a proper standard; failure to properly maintain houses and outbuildings; appropriation of the property of the laird; agitation against the office of the village constable; and arrears of rent and fines imposed. Various sums were then enumerated, the total far exceeding the value of all our livestock and worldly goods. It was signed and dated by the factor.

  I returned to the table and laid down the letter. My father’s gaze remained fixed in front of him.

  ‘I have explained the contents of the letter to your father,’ said the minister, addressing me. ‘I am dumbfounded that he has allowed his affairs to fall into such disarray that these measures have been necessitated.’

  ‘Necessitated?’ I repeated.

  The minister looked at me with a thin smile on his lips. ‘We are all responsible for the management of our affairs. The laird cannot be expected to permit tenants to exploit his land free of charge, nor to do so with such disregard for the terms of tenancy.’ He then shook his head and made a soft tutting sound behind his teeth.

  I could not help but feel that he took some pleasure in our situation and saw no purpose in appealing to him to intervene on our behalf. He then stated that he had not seen my sister or I in church these last few months.

  ‘Perhaps if you had paid more attention to your spiritual welfare,’ he said, ‘you would not have found yourself in such circumstances.’

  ‘I see no relation between the two things,’ I said.

  ‘That is precisely my point,’ said the minister. ‘You are a great discredit to your father.’

  He then informed us that he would make what enquiries he could about finding alternative accommodation. My father thanked him and he took his leave. When he was gone my father snatched the letter from the table and tore it into pieces. He pounded his fists on the table, making the scraps of paper leap into the air. I watched him as I might have watched a wounded animal struggle in a trap. The twins were woken on their bunk and Jetta went to comfort them. Father then stood up and advanced upon Jetta. He gripped her by the back of the neck, dragged her to the table and set her roughly on the bench next to me. The twins toddled after her, wailing horribly.