In Loving Memory

by Telfer Chaplin, Jenny

  For heaven’s sake woman, she chided herself, it’s his choice and if by now he’s in mortal danger in the battle for freedom, nobody placed him in that situation except himself, his own stupid stubborn self. So nothing I can do about any of it.

  Almost as is sensing the tense atmosphere of worry, and uncertainty, the three children were unusually fractious and downright difficult.

  Even worse when desperate for a bit of peace and quiet, having sent Ewan and Scott out to play in the streets, the two boys later arrived home, bursting with exciting news.

  “It’s true, Mammy,” enthused Scott. “A piper at their head, playing Scots Wha Hae, lots o men marchin off to war. They were carryin big banners. One o the men read the message out to us. Every banner had the words in big black letters ... SCOTLAND FREE OR A DESERT.

  Maggie gave what she knew at best could only have been a wintry smile.

  Aloud she said, “Scotland free or a desert. Yes, brave words indeed. No sign of your father in the marching lines of men? I suppose he’ll already be in the thick of the fray somewhere or other. Ah well, boys, enough excitement for one day.”

  Somehow by dint of keeping the boys fully occupied in the cottage and well away from the frenetic activity already reported in the streets and wynds, somehow Maggie got through the rest of that day, free of any other untoward incident. But throughout it all in her heart of hearts, she knew for a certainty... never as long as they both lived, never would she be free of the constant worry about Fergus.

  How could it be otherwise? she debated with herself. All right, in the beginning it was a marriage of convenience, for both of us, but over the years and no matter how often or how repeatedly he drove me nearly out of my mind with worry, even so, I have come to love the man.

  As the strength of her emotion threatened to engulf her, Maggie sat down at the table and as if actually addressing him face-to-face across the supper table, she whispered, “A rabble-rousing, devoted Radical fanatic or not, you are still my man, my very own husband. And God help us all... but I love you, Fergus Bell, love you. Come what may in God’s own time and God willing, as long as I have breath in my body, I always will love you, till death us do part.”

  Chapter 8

  The children had been irritable, sniffly and out of sorts for days on end now, and with not having had a decent undisturbed night’s sleep now for what seemed like weeks on end. Maggie was feeling decidedly on edge. With Fergus as usual off somewhere with his Radical business, she knew that with no one else to care for the bairns, if she fell down on the job, there was nobody else to look out for them. Jess Johnson, of course, ‘loved them to bits’ as she so often rather quaintly phrased it. But just how tender loving would be her care if, and when, faced with overflowing bowls of sick in the middle of a winter’s night, and irritable children each demanding instant attention? That would, of course, be an entirely different matter.

  One morning, although Fiona seemed to be slightly on the mend, the same could not possibly be said for young Scott and his brother Ewan. Seriously worried by now as she was, catching sight of Euphemia from the kailyard, Maggie called out, “Mistress Weir, Euphemia, if you’ve a minute this morning, could you perhaps pop in... I’d like you to take a wee look at the boys, still sickening for something far as I can see.”

  Later, one look at both boys was more than sufficient for Euphemia, self-appointed local nurse as she was, to say with the wealth of experience of childhood illnesses at her fingertips, “Sorry, Maggie, lass, cannae say I like the look of this. How long have the boys been this hot and fevered? Those angry looking spots, fair reminds me of the time ma ain wee Andrew succumbed tae the dreaded scarlet fever.”

  Maggie gasped. “I’ve heard you mention young Andrew before... wasn’t he your son that passed to his Maker before he even got to school-age?”

  Euphemia nodded silently. “Uch listen , hen, Ah didnae mean for tae upset or worry ye unduly, but the fact remains, in my experience both yer wee laddies is right no weel. But what aboot Fiona, she seems bright enough this day, eh no? Thought ye said she’d been a bit under the weather forbye recently?”

  Maggie smiled. “Thank God, whatever it was that ailed her, seems tae have run its course. But what do you suggest I do about the boys?”

  Euphemia pursed her lips. “Fegus is still away, I take it? Nae help there in sponging the boys doon hour after hour all through the day and night. Never mind, ye’re a strong capable woman, ye’ll manage just fine, keep on sponging them doon, give them plenty of drinks of hot water, try tae keep them, as comfortable as ye can. Dae all that and God willing, they’ll baith be fine and dandy in aboot anither week or so... by which time hopefully yer guid man will be safely back hame with ye.”

  As Maggie set about following ‘Nurse’ Weir’s rules of medical engagement to the letter, at the back of her mind there kept nagging at her the thought. If it’s God’s Will to take one of my boys to be His Heavenly Angel, please God let it be Ewan and not my own wee Scott, born from the love Fergus and I now share. Already tired and depressed, Maggie cried sore tears at such an evil thought.

  As day succeeded day, each one brought its own titbits of news, normally garbled accounts of what was happening or rumoured to be taking place all over Scotland in wake of the Proclamation.

  “Aye, it’s true,” said Euphemia Weir. “Ah’ve had it on very guid authority, there was even a battle, the Battle of Bonnymuir. Now Ah’m not wanting for tae worry ye overly Maggie, but from what Ah’ve heard it seems they’ve captured all of the leaders and most of their troops. Brave men, it seems they were on their way to try to capture the armaments factory at Carron Ironworks, somewhere near Falkirk.”

  “You do seem very well informed, Euphemia, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

  Mrs Weir gave a secretive, knowing smile. “As to that, as ma dear auld Granny used to say... maybe aye, maybe hooch-aye. Anyway, Ah thought it best to pass along what nugget of news Ah had, what with there still being no sign of Fergus.”

  As time went on, it seemed that these days not only was everyone Maggie met something of an authority on the progress of the Revolution, the general assumption was that as far as Maggie was concerned, she, as the wife of a known Radical, was now being kept in the dark as to troop movements, but that she would welcome news of the latest developments as and when they occurred. And here today when Maggie happened to glance out the window, just then crossing the road was none other than Jess Johnson bearing aloft the inevitable platter of home-made scones. Having accepted the admittance ticket with a minimum of fuss, Maggie knowing herself to be rude, quickly ushered Jess out the door.

  “Thank God,” she breathed. “I don’t think I could have stood yet another report on the Revolution.”

  But no sooner had Maggie thus congratulated herself, than another neighbour, the young newly-wed starry-eyed Rena Rogan, leading by the hand a weeping toddler Fiona. “I thought I’d better bring her safe hame tae ye, Mistress Bell. One minute she and Ewan were playing right happily, next thing, wee Fiona here was crying her eyes out and Ewan were nowhere to be seen.”

  As Maggie brought the bride and Fiona into the room, she calmed down the toddler and dried off her tears. No sooner had Maggie insisted on making a cup of tea for Rena, than she knew she had made a big mistake, the moment her visitor started to speak.

  “Did ye hear the latest, Mistress Bell? It seems after the storming of the Greenock Gaol, there was a massacre. Aye, indeed, a massacre, streets running with blood. Ah hear they’re even calling it the Scottish Peterloo, for they even killed a wee boy, an eight-year-old boy, tragic, is it no? Makes ye wonder where it’s all gonnae end. Enough tae give anybody nightmares, Thank God ma husband is safe home every night after his day’s work at the Mill. Still no news of your ain guid man?”

  Chapter 9

  By the time Fergus returned to the cottage, it was to the news that a distraught Maggie imparted to him.

  “Our own beloved wee boy, our very own Scott,
he’s gone meet his grandfather in Heaven. And a so-called loving God... what has he left us with? Only the bastard son of a drunken lecher. Some loving God, that would allow such a thing. Oh Fergus, I just cannot accept God’s Holy Will in any of this. It’s just too much to bear. Between that and the constant worry of wondering if the Authorities have captured you... I just cannot take any more of it.”

  If Maggie had thought that in her distress, Fergus would envelop her in his arms and murmur soothing, healing, sweet nothings in her ear, then she was doomed to disappointment.

  With the strangest look in his eyes, he glared at her, then rather than coming closer to comfort her, instead he backed even further away.

  “Maggie, I never thought to hear you say such an evil thing... bastard son, indeed. Dear wee laddie that he is, I can honestly say I love him like my own.”

  Maggie dried her tears and stormed at him. “Well, hell and damnation to that for an answer, not too much in the way of comfort for me there, now is there? Our own, our very own beloved wee Scott is gone, gone never to return and here what do you do? Just gibber on about how you love the bastard like your very own. He is not your very own, never was, never has been and never will be. Your own beloved wee boy is dead, can you still not comprehend that, big stupid Radical that ye are. Ye’re a coarse unfeeling shell of a man.”

  “And ye’re a cold heartless bitch wantin to play God choosing which child should die and which should live.”

  Maggie knew that from that moment on, never again would their wedded lives have the slightest measure of loving kindness, closeness or happy togetherness. It was over, that aspect, over as surely as if a court of law or ministers of the Kirk had decreed, “This sham of a marriage is over, null and void.”

  That night and despite their many past rows regarding his Radical involvement, for the first time in all their years of marriage, Fergus and Maggie slept as far apart in bed as they could physically manage within the bounds of the fairly narrow wall-bed.

  As she yet again cried herself to sleep that night, again and again Maggie asked God, “Why? Why God, why take to yourself the child of a loving union and yet spare that bastard child, the fruit of my sorrow, my shame, my humiliation? Why leave him, the very sight of him to taunt me for the rest of my life? So much for all my prayers. Thank you dear God, thank you for nothing, sweet damn all.”

  After another blazing row a purple-faced Fergus stormed out of the house.

  Maggie gave a grim smile. At least nowadays, it isn’t always the same topic we row about. Now we have a choice, the Radical movement, my on-going hatred of Ewan or as today, my coldness to Fergus and my withholding of what he now frequently refers to as his ‘marital rights’. Marital rights, indeed. Don’t I have any such rights, what about my right not always to comply with his wishes and desires? What about my right to refuse to work day and night in caring for the home, the two children, the physical needs and whims of my Lord and Master?

  Who in their right mind would ever want to be a woman? We’re slaves, nothing other than slaves to men. Perhaps in some future age, women will come to their senses, have a voice , a will of their own, but I cannot see it ever happening in my lifetime.

  As these thoughts raced through Maggie’s brain, she thought. Damned if I care anymore where Fergus has now gone at such high speed. Maybe he’s got a fancy woman somewhere, a woman whose husband works nightshifts and who would welcome his advances. Well, he’s welcome to her, for any given favours, for I’m damned if he’ll get any such special treatment in my bed. What was it he called me? A heartless, evil bitch, an un-natural mother, not to mention the rest of my many other attributes.

  Chapter 10

  August 1820

  As Fergus came into the cottage on the evening of 30th August, his face was ashen, his shoulders were bent like an old man and with what looked to Maggie like a single desperate act of despair, as with the last breath in his body, he tossed aside a pamphlet the black print of which screamed out, ‘MURDER, MURDER, MURDER.’

  Maggie said not a word but her raised eyebrows prompted her husband to say, “Aye, weel, might ye wonder, Maggie. Just ye take a read at that pamphlet and ye’ll wonder no more, for that’s what we were handing out this afternoon... while they were hanging by the neck and then bloody butchering poor old Weaver Wilson.”

  Maggie took the printed sheet in her hands and read, “May the ghost of the butchered Wilson haunt the pillows of his relentless jurors... ‘MURDER, MURDER, MURDER’.

  Maggie read and reread the words, examined the accompanying poster, thought for several moments, then turned to Fergus and said, “Fergus, from what I know of your Radical activities, and I admit there’s still plenty of which I am in the dark, but even so, what with your spreading the message, with your platform speechifying, you are already deeply involved as a Radical leader. So much so, that God help us all, had you been unlucky enough to get caught, that could as easily have been you on the gallows this day, instead of Weaver Wilson who was captured at the Radical skirmish.”

  Her husband looked at her. “Tell me something Ah don’t already know, Maggie. Fine well Ah realise, Ah’d be stupid no to know, yes, it could have been me condemned to death on the scaffold.”

  Maggie could feel her face turn an angry red as she yelled at Fergus, “You know that, do you? You appreciate that so far you’ve been lucky to escape with your life? And yet, here you are today at the very hanging, risking even greater chance being captured, and what are you doing? Only handing out to all and sundry seditious leaflets. My God, man are your entirely mad? Have you no thought for me and your bairns? Handing out seditious pamphlets, Uch, Fergus, I despair.”

  He stared at her and was about to speak, but Maggie interrupted, “Uch, Fergus Bell, I’ve supported you all these years, borne your children, worried myself sick about you when you’re in hiding from the authorities. Well, no more, why in God’s name should I worry another moment about you? It has to end here and now.”

  He nodded silently, as if by now bereft of speech.

  Maggie seizing the advantage said, “Fergus, listen well, It seems to me the sooner you quit the shores of Scotland, the better.”

  He looked up. “Ye speak true, Maggie, for it’s only going to get worse. The other two Radicals they captured, Hardie and Baird, they’re awaiting trial... mark my words, come the Autumn, those two brave men, they’ll be next on the gallows. And other men they’ve captured, they’ve already been transported to the Colonies. But for Hardie and Baird, it’ll be the gallows.”

  Maggie put a hand to her brow. “Fergus, escape now while you still can, or if you’re not careful, it’ll be you hanging from the gallows. Surely ye can see that, man?”

  Late November 1820

  Maggie could feel her eyes open wide in utter amazement as she stared and went on staring at her husband.

  “You’ve done what, Fergus? Good heavens above, this goes beyond all belief. Please, please do tell me that I’ve misunderstood you... that I really have grasped the wrong end of the stick.”

  Giving her stare for stare, finally he allowed himself a heartfelt sigh and in the voice of one who was bone-weary, said, “Listen, woman, suppose you get off your high horse, sit down, pay attention and Ah’ll go through my master-plan yet again.”

  Although obeying her husband to the point of sitting down at the table, even so, Maggie knew she was still very far removed from any state of relaxed composure. Plunking her arms on the edge of the table, she leant forward, looked up at Fergus and waited for him to start speaking.

  Fixing her with an unblinking stare, he said, “This is the way of it, Maggie... as a hunted Radical, Ah need to flee the country and sooner rather than later, before my luck runs out. As ye well know, already Ah’ve had a few narrow escapes and it’s just a question of time now before the bastard law-enforcers catch up with me. And Sheena, poor widow-woman that she now is, she needs a man to be her protector on the voyage out to Canada, not forgetting that without a husband
to her name she wouldnae be eligible for a grant of free land out on the Prairies. So, one way and another, my plan makes sense for all concerned. Surely ye can see that?”

  Maggie could feel her lips tighten into a thin hard line.

  “What I can see, since ye ask, is that you and Sheena, ye’d suit each other’s needs fine well. I’d be blind and downright stupid if I couldnae see that. But what I just cannot get my head round is this... in the long run, forged papers or not, you’re not her husband... you’re my man, so it’s my needs ye should be seeing to, instead of sailing off into the sunset with the unlovely Sheena and her brood.”

  Yet again, at least having heard her out, with a weary, pain-filled expression on his face, he said, “Maggie, Maggie, fine weel Ah knew ye were aye jealous of Sheena and of what she and Ah shared thegither before Ah got merrit on tae you, but...”

  Unable to contain herself a moment longer, Maggie shouted, “But nothing. Ye mean before ye saw a better offer, a weaver’s cottage and my grandfather’s loom... that’s when young love’s troth was forgotten, that’s when ye left Sheena high and dry, bereft and for all I know, weeping her heart out for her lost love.”

  He frowned and pointing an admonitory forefinger, he said, “Well, since ye mention it, we both know who got the best out of that bargain. And let’s face it sure as hell wasnae Sheena... she wasnae the one tae be carryin an illegitimate bairn in her belly.”

  Maggie rose unsteadily to her feet. “I don’t know how you can be so cruel bringing all that terrible past history up again. Even now I still can’t bear to think about it. Ye know, there’s an ugly word for what that drunken so-called gentleman did to me. And come to think of it, there’s maybe another equally ugly word for somebody like you who turns such a hellish disaster to their own advantage... a sleekit chancer, a penniless nobody with an eye to the main chance.” She paused for breath. “That’s what you were, a sleekit chancher and that’s why entirely for your own selfish worldly gain, ye ditched Sheena.”