The Tobacco Lords Trilogy

by Margaret Thomson-Davis

  ‘They built a port—about eighteen miles from the toon. And because it’s Glasgow’s port they called it Port Glasgow.’

  ‘I’ve never seen big ships.’

  ‘Oh-ho! Quin’s the clever one, eh? Quin can show you.’

  Jessie climbed the Cracklin House Brae and hid among the broom. She listened to the town stirring and going about its business. There were bells and street cries, and the clappers of the lepers. There was the rumble and creaking of carriage wheels and the clip-clopping and whinnying of horses. She smelled the sickly odour of the sugar works, and the sour stench from the mutton market. They came mixing up with the pleasant aroma of the orchard garden and the herb market. Occasionally she peered out and caught glimpses of cadgers leading their pack-horses, some with creels, some with sacks, some with panniers loaded with fish or salt or eggs or poultry or crockery-ware. There were different-coloured sedan-chairs being carried along. There were gentlemen riding on horseback. Barefooted servant maids and water caddies waited at wells. Then suddenly from everywhere Highlanders appeared until the whole of Glasgow was blanketed with tartan. The wail and skirl of the bagpipes filled the air. Kettledrums rattled. Gradually the tartan faded away and disappeared.

  Still Jessie waited. She did not know what to do. The longing for her children and her anxiety about them was a pain tugging at her with ever-increasing urgency. Yet to suddenly appear before Mistress Halyburton after all this time, and without the fine linen she had been entrusted with, was a terrifying thought. Mistress Halyburton’s wrath was something worth fearing and she was a woman of her word. If she said she would get you flung in the Tolbooth, get you flung in the Tolbooth she would.

  Then a new thought struck Jessie and she clung to it hopefully. Maybe Mistress Halyburton had found her linen by now. There was always the chance that she had sent one of her servants to look for it and they had gathered it up while she was lying helpless in the pit. The more she thought of this, the more elated and certain she became. Of course, that must have been what happened. Mistress Halyburton would be bound to make some efforts to find her linen. Jessie struggled up, half laughing, half crying with relief. Every bone in her body felt as stiff and as brittle as an icicle and she was unable to hurry as she would have liked. Instead, her journey down the Cracklin House Brae into the Back Cow Loan, along Candleriggs Street and into the Trongate was a series of fits and starts. She entered the archway that led to the backclose and the Halyburtons’ stairway, her heart racing in her chest as if it were going to explode and by the time she had hauled herself up the stairs, she no longer knew what she was doing or why. The door-pin rasped round and round and reminded her of hoarse black crows.

  Birds sang early in the morning outside the cottage. Birds soared up the mountainside and wheeled in the glen. Birds cawing, croaking, chirping, cheeping, chirruping in happy chorus.

  Her mother had been content to welcome each dawn.

  ‘Aye, Jessie.’ She smiled. ‘Another day.’

  Her father had a smile for her as well. He ruffled his big hand through her hair.

  ‘There you are, lass. Up with the birds as usual. But you’re your daddy’s own wee bird.’

  Jessie was smiling at her father when the door opened and she found herself face to face with Mistress Halyburton who happened to be passing in the lobby. At first Letitia could not believe her eyes, then fury fouled up her tongue and prevented her from speaking.

  Jessie said: ‘Have you got the linen, mistress?’

  Letitia suddenly grabbed Jessie by the hair and hauled her into the house.

  ‘You impudent, thieving witch! You’ve the audacity to come back here asking for more of my good linen. You’d have it all, you’d steal every last thread from me.’

  ‘I put it out on the grass by the burn to dry,’ Jessie wailed. ‘And when I got back it wasn’t there. I didn’t steal it. I’m a respectable woman. I’m no’ a thief.’

  ‘Respectable? Respectable?’ Letitia’s voice screeched high. ‘With two illegitimate brats? You’re a liar, Jessie Chisholm, and lying’s punishable by law as well as thieving. And the nerve of you to come back here after all this time. As sure as my name’s Letitia Halyburton I’ll see you hang for this. Tam! Kate!’ she called but both servants were already at her elbow. ‘Would you look at this?’

  Kate screwed up her leathery face until the wart on her nose touched her chin. She shoved it close to Jessie who could not shrink back because Mistress Halyburton still held her hair in an iron grasp.

  ‘Steal frae my mistress, would ye?’ She spat in Jessie’s face.

  ‘No, no,’ Jessie whimpered. ‘No, I didn’t.’

  Letitia said: ‘Fetch my cloak, Tam. We’ll march her along to the Tolbooth.’

  ‘No, no. No’ the Tolbooth. I have to find my bairns.’

  ‘Your bairns are away with the Highland army,’ Kate told her maliciously. ‘You’ll never see them again.’

  Jessie began to struggle. ‘For pity’s sake let me go, mistress. I’ll have to go after my bairns.’

  ‘You should have thought of your bastards before you started your wicked thieving.’ Letitia gave Jessie’s head a jerk and she cried out in pain.

  ‘I laid it out to dry by the Woodside burn.’

  ‘Oh, come on.’ Letitia hauled her out of the house with Kate running after her, fastening the cape round her shoulders. ‘Tam, you stay here. Kate and I will manage fine. Here, Kate, you keep a grip of her going down the stairs while I attend to my skirts.’

  She was wearing a plum-coloured sackdress with a long train which she had to hitch over one arm to protect it from the dirt. Outside she said:

  ‘You’re doing fine, Kate. Just hold fast to her and follow me.’

  ‘Wicked thieving witch,’ Kate said, twisting at Jessie’s arm. ‘They should burn you like your mother.’

  ‘I fell down the pit. And when I got back out it wasn’t there.’

  ‘Well, where is it then?’

  ‘I don’t know. Somebody must have stolen it.’

  ‘Aye, we know what wicked auld witch stole it, all right.’

  As they hurried along Trongate Street, people stopped to stare and some ragged children skipped excitedly after them. A cold wind was tugging at Mistress Halyburton’s cloak and rain sprayed down to rapidly fill up the ruts and holes in the road. Letitia in her hurry had forgotten to put on her pattens and her silk shoes were getting ruined, a fact that did nothing to improve her temper. By the time they reached the Tolbooth, Jessie was in physical as well as mental distress. Her crutch was stabbing into her armpit with each hurried step and the rain was soaking her hair and running down her neck, making the wind doubly chilling.

  The Tolbooth, which had been built in 1626, consisted of the ground floor and five floors above; the windows of the rooms where prisoners were confined were strongly barricaded by massive iron stanchions. The ground floor was where the town clerk had his offices and entry was below the outside stair. Entry to the prison wards was by a narrow turnpike stair in the steeple. During the day the outer door of this entry was only a half-door wicket, guarded by a janitor who kept his seat constantly in the passage and amused himself by looking over the half-door at what was passing on the street. Besides this outside wicket-door there was a strong inside door, securing the entry up the narrow staircase to the prison wards. Also near to the outside door there was a sentry-box and a soldier was always on guard there.

  Mistress Halyburton marched straight to the janitor.

  ‘I have a prisoner for you. A wicked, thieving witch of a woman. Guard her weel until I get one of the bailies to deal with her.’

  Jessie wept.

  ‘Mistress, mistress. You’ve had bairns yourself.’

  ‘The impudence of her.’ Letitia grabbed Jessie and hurled her at the wicket-door and, losing her balance, Jessie crashed on to the road at the janitor’s feet. She could not believe that she was going to be imprisoned and unable ever to see Regina or Gav again. She refused to gi
ve them up. With the help of her crutch she struggled to rise. Then she tried to limp away, only to be hurled back against the door again. This time the janitor got a grip of her.

  ‘Come on. Inside with you.’

  Jessie began to scream.

  ‘Gavie! Regina! Gavie! Regina!’ she screeched over and over again, her voice trailing fainter and fainter up the dark spiral stair.

  Bailie Steenie was a plain man, not renowned for brains nor education. He knew very little, if anything, about the law, but dispersed his magisterial duties as best and as speedily as he was able. He had been heard to say: ‘A statute? What’s a statute? Words, just words. Have I to be tied down by mere words? No, no—I feel my law—here.’

  And he struck a fist against his heart.

  Drinking in his estimation was a positive virtue and in a recent case, when he learned that a man charged with stabbing another had been drunk at the time, he was shocked enough to cry out:

  ‘Good Lord, if he will do this when he’s drunk, what will he not do when he’s sober?’

  Now first thing in the morning a boy was brought before him charged with stealing a handkerchief. The indictment having been read, the bailie addressed the boy.

  ‘I’ve no doubt you did this deed, because I had a handkerchief stolen oot o’ my ain pocket this verra week. So I’m sending you to jail for sixty days.’

  The assessor rose up as if in pain. ‘Yer honour, ye canna do that.’

  ‘What for no’?’

  ‘The case has not yet been proved.’

  ‘Och, weel, I’ll just give you thirty days.’

  Up creaked the assessor again, this time with closed eyes.

  ‘Yer honour!’

  ‘Weel, my lad,’ said Bailie Steenie, reluctantly disposing of the case. ‘The evidence seems a wee bit jimp this time, so I’ll let you off. But you’d better no’ do it again!’

  The next accused was Jessie Chisholm.

  ‘This is much more serious than pickering a handky.’ The bailie peered reprovingly at Jessie from over the top of his spectacles. ‘You’ve stolen a’ Mistress Halyburton’s linen. Good expensive stuff. And after her trusting you with it. I don’t know what the world’s coming to.’ He eyed the assessor, squashing him down before he arose. ‘She had it and you’re no’ going to tell me any different. I’ve put up with enough of your law for one afternoon. She had it in her possession and therefore was responsible for it.’ He turned his attention back to Jessie. ‘Now, deported or hangit, which is it to be?’

  Jessie stared back at him in anguish.

  ‘I want to go to my bairns.’

  ‘Where are your bairns?’

  ‘With the Highland army.’

  ‘Rebels, are ye? Ye’d a’ hang if I had my way. Every traitorous one o’ ye. This toon’s near ruined because o’ a’ you rebels.’

  The assessor closed his eyes again, but did not bother getting up.

  ‘Yer honour, she’s no’ on trial for being a Highland rebel.’

  ‘Aye, weel, that may be so, but she’d no’ last long ower in Virginia, crippled as she is. It’ll be a kindness to hang her.’

  ‘Yer honour!’

  ‘Tell the hangman to get the gallows ready.’

  ‘Oh, verra well.’

  Jessie just stood leaning on her crutch, looking bewildered.

  ‘Away ye go to your rest, woman,’ said the bailie, refreshing himself with a glass of brandy from the decanter on the bench. ‘And may the Lord have mercy on your soul. Next case.’

  Quin and Gav were admiring the ships at Port Glasgow. The wind was whipping the waves into ‘white horses’ and sending spray flying over the bows. They could see the Gareloch and the widening firth and the mountains all around. Port Glasgow consisted of a straggle of buildings curving along the edge of the water, houses, sheds and bonded warehouses where the tobacco was kept until tax was paid on it. A jetty stuck out like a long finger and on either side and around it some of the Virginia Fleet was at anchor. There was the Thetis, the Advice and the Grizie, and William Halyburton’s ships, the Letty and the Lintie. They all had tall masts and spars and low hulls and were square-rigged.

  Gav was very impressed. ‘I’d love to sail to Virginia in one of those ships.’

  ‘Quin knows a few stories about them. They’re lucky if they get there. Quin’s heard it can be verra windy. Quin’s heard ships can be blowed all to bits. And even if folks do get there a’ in one piece, it’s just to die of the scurvy or starve to death.’

  ‘Don’t they take enough food with them?’

  ‘Salt pork and biscuits full o’ weevils. Quin knows you wouldn’t like being a sailor, Gav. It’s time Quin and Gav were trotting back to the toon.’

  Reluctantly Gav followed Quin away from the harbour. The sturdy three-masted ships fascinated him and he would have enjoyed inspecting the inside of one.

  Quin called back to him: ‘Are you going to wait until it’s dark, eh? And you no’ with a lanthorn or a candle to your name?’

  Gav made up to Quin but had to run to keep alongside him. ‘What’s all the hurry?’ he asked breathlessly.

  ‘Och, Quin’s no’ verra keen on this place. The toon’s the place for Quin.’

  It had begun to rain and the road, which was hardly more than a track speckled with loose stones, became sticky with mud and blackened their feet. At one point they heard the sound of galloping and had to jump to one side among the prickly gorse to allow the horseman to splash and clatter past. Mud smacked all over them and some stones whipped up and cut their legs. Gav’s freckled face screwed up against the pain and Quin said:

  ‘Quin and Gav will soon be back in the toon and Quin’ll wash Gav’s sore legs in good Glasgow water.’

  At long last they saw the Great Bridge with its eight arches crossing the River Clyde. At that point near the bridge it was so shallow horses and carts splashed through the ford rather than climb the steep, worn roadway of the bridge. Above the glistening roof-tops of the town Gav could pick out the Cathedral up on the left, then more towards the river there was the towering spire of the University, the Ramshaw Church, Hutcheson’s Hospital, the Tolbooth, the Tron Church and the Guildhall with a wintry sun sparkling the gilded ship that formed its weathervane. On the other side of the river was the pretty country village of Gorbals and on the river they could see the white sails of little boats.

  They squelched across some fields and came out on the country lane that led past the Shawfield Mansion and along Trongate Street.

  A crowd had gathered in front of the Tolbooth and the gallows had been erected on the platform on top of the outside stair. Men, women and children crushed around, laughing and chattering expectantly. Street pedlars cried their wares. The town’s drummer banged with great gusto.

  ‘Oh-ho,’ said Quin. ‘There’s going to be a hanging. Now for some fun, eh?’

  ‘My legs are still bleeding.’ Gav came limping after Quin as best he could.

  ‘There’s the cure,’ said Quin, pointing to a well across from King William’s statue. ‘Quin’ll soon stop the blood seeping oot. Once Quin gets this water on you, your blood’ll turn to icicles and no’ be able to move.’

  Gav yelped as the water gushed over his leg, but Quin was not paying much attention. He had caught sight of the cripple woman hobbling up the stairs of the Tolbooth leaning on her crutch with one arm and on the banister with the other.

  For a minute or two he jumped about in agitation in an effort to screen Gav’s view. Then eventually he bent over the child and hissed in a confidential tone: ‘Gav, get ready to flee like the wind. Here’s thon black dog called Spider coming to chow that leg o’ yours right off.’

  Back down Trongate Street they both raced, the pain of Gav’s legs forgotten. Round King Street on to Bridge Street and then down by the slaughterhouse on to the Low Green. Quin stopped and leaned on Gav, at the same time clutching his chest and choking for breath.

  ‘Oh-ho, that was a close one, eh? Auld Nick nearly h
ad you that time, Gavie, m’lad.’

  ‘Is he away now?’ Gav gazed anxiously around.

  ‘Of course. Of course. You’re far too good a sprinter for Spider. He’s trotted away hame to Tannery Wynd.’

  ‘Can we go back to the well then?’

  ‘Eh … no, Quin’s got a better idea. There’s a fine spring along there by the bleachfields. Come on.’

  On passing the bleachfields, Quin whipped up a linen sheet and stuffed it under his coat, making Gav nearly weep with agitation.

  ‘Quin, they could send you to the plantations or hang you. Mammy’s told me about lots of people being deported or hanged for stealing from the bleachfields. Put it back. Oh, put it back, please, Quin.’

  ‘It was just lying there, Gav, serving no end or purpose, and Quin has a verra good purpose for it. Now you stay here and wash your legs and then meet Quin at the Cross in a wee while. Quin has a wee bit business to attend to.’

  And before Gav could make any more objections Quin jogged away.

  By the time he reached the Tolbooth, the crowd was dispersing and Jessie was swaying high in the gallows, one-legged and with frizzy head twisted to one side. Her eyes were open and her body was twitching. Quin made straight for Hangy Spittal.

  ‘Maister Spittal,’ he said deferentially, ‘Quin would be verra obliged if you gave him that body to bury. It’s the mither of a friend o’ his. You’ve seen him with Quin. A wee red-haired, freckly-faced childer.’

  Hangy Spittal’s wizened face seemed too small in proportion to his blue coat with its big red collar.

  ‘How do I know you’re no’ one o’ them wicked resurrectionists?’ he wheezed.

  ‘What if Quin was?’

  The hangman hesitated and glanced around.

  ‘Then I’d maybe give you the body for a price.’

  Quin plunged his hands into his pockets and produced a few merks.

  ‘That’s all Quin’s got.’

  The hangman carefully plucked the money from Quin’s palms.

  ‘Done!’

  Jessie was dropped to the ground and Quin whipped out the sheet from under his coat and smartly covered her body with it.