After learning that Gav could read and write, Ramsay immediately thought of his possibilities as an indentured servant, although he realised that the boy was very young. He was prepared, however, to send him to the Grammar School for a short time because the school taught bookkeeping, which would be a valuable asset. And, of course, the school only cost about four shillings a quarter, plus the voluntary Candlemas offering.
He called his clerks into his Briggait office room. After allowing them to stand in suspense for a while until he finished attending to some papers on his desk, he glowered up at them.
‘Mind thon red-headed wee rascal? I want him nabbed and brought here!’
He tried to tell himself that there was no more to his thoughts on Gav than business. Yet, forever nudging at the back of his mind and causing him discomfort, was the unfortunate connection between the Chisholm family and his own. Always when he had looked at Jessie he had been reminded of her mother and, in turn, reminded of his sister Prissie.
When they had been very young he and Prissie had got on well together. He had been three years older than her and although they had argued and fought like any other brother and sister, he had been secretly fond of her. He had admired her too. He remembered her vivid imagination and the way her eyes used to widen as she chattered on to him about the most outrageous and fanciful things she had seen or done. Prissie was a marvellous storyteller and kept him enthralled many times. Or made him roar with laughter. It was not until she came into her teens that she was the cause of any worry. It was then her recreations changed from playing ball or hide-and-seek to stranger pastimes like the ritual of the faggot. This was supposed to, according to Prissie, bring about the punishment of someone who had wronged her. The first time it had been her teacher Dominie Bain. She had thrust incense and alum into a faggot and while it burned she chanted:
‘Faggot, I burn thee, but it is the heart, the body and the soul, the blood, the mind, the power of action and the spirit of Dominie Bain which shall burn also. By the power of the earth, the heavens, the rainbow, the twelve lines, by the might of Mars and Mercury and all the planets, may he be unable to rest in peace, to the marrow of his bones. In the name of all demons, depart, faggot, and consume the body, the soul, the power of action and the mind of Dominie Bain so that he may neither stand still, nor talk to any person, nor rest, nor mount a horse, nor cross a river, nor drink, nor eat, until the time when my desire and my will upon him be accomplished. Quanto, gino, garoco!’
Only a few weeks afterwards Dominie Bain had gone swimming in the river down by the Flesher’s Haugh and been drowned. Prissie said it happened because of the faggot ritual. She was elated. He was deeply shocked.
Other rituals had followed at which she had sacrificed puppies and kittens. Then eventually she had begun taking strange fits during which she jerked and moaned and frothed at the mouth. From her mouth also poured cinders and eggshells, feathers and other objects, and despite the fact that he had once caught her gobbling a piece of soap just before one of these fits, he never could be quite sure if the other things were part of a frightening trick Prissie was playing or if the phenomenon was genuine. Prissie moaned and wailed in what certainly appeared genuine distress and told everyone that the devil had come to her in a vision and told her who were his devotees in the town. She now knew the Glasgow witches.
Ministers and lairds and lords and lawyers had come to see her and gone away completely convinced. And so Prissie had begun to point the finger.
Jessie Chisholm’s mother had been the seventeenth victim. He remembered her very well. She had been a sweet and gentle countrywoman and Jessie had been a bonny, loving child.
He had watched the woman burn as he had watched all the others, but this time he knew this burning had to be the last. Prissie had been there too, her face glowing and her eyes wild. They had walked home together. He was silent and she chattered all the time. Once home he had shut the door and followed her into her room. They were alone in the house.
He said: ‘Oh, Prissie, lass. I canna let you go on.’
She looked surprised. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Forgive me,’ he said. And before she could recover from her astonishment his hands were round her throat. His fingers pressed tighter and tighter and all the time her eyes stared into his. He would never forget them. Such shocked, accusing eyes.
Prissie had always been fond of him. She had trusted him completely.
He had never quite lost track of Jessie Chisholm. He knew the child had to have a leg amputated as a result of the torture she had suffered. He knew she was homeless and sleeping on the streets and stairs. It was not until quite a few years had passed, however, that he was able to do anything for her. He put in a good word for her to the Halyburtons and as a result she got work there and he also employed her himself.
Yet nothing could assuage the guilt that plagued him. He tried to crush it out with hard work and conscientiously built up his business. After his wife died he sought comfort in illicit sex with his servant Chrissie Kinkaid, but all that did was to produce more guilt, and a daughter. Often he wondered if Annabella and Nancy knew they were half-sisters.
Thinking of Annabella was like twisting a dagger in his heart. Every day he prayed over and over again that God would forgive her wild and wicked ways and lead her safely home, but there was no hope in his heart. The devil had long ago reached out from Prissie and entered Annabella. Only death would stop the girl now.
Death was in the minds of the Halyburton family too. They had all gone to watch the execution of Jessie Chisholm in order to see justice done. Phemy had felt flustered for quite a time afterwards. She never could enjoy hangings.
‘Poor Jessie!’ she said. ‘I hope she didn’t suffer.’
‘Tuts, Mistress Phemy,’ her mother scolded. ‘What’s punishment without pain?’
Then there had been the Lady Glendinny’s death and funeral. The funeral had been a great occasion and Letitia was confident that if her old friend Murn was looking down from heaven she must have been very pleased. There had been brandy and ale and whisky in abundance. With her own hands she had cooked parn pies, and larks and partridges and pullets and a pyramid of syllabubs and orange cream and sweetmeats wet and dry.
And there had been plenty of ribs and scraps to throw to the dozens of beggars and sorners who crowded the stairs and hopefully followed the funeral procession.
But now Letitia’s thoughts were busying themselves with other plans. One day soon Phemy would take Murn’s place as the Earl’s wife and a trousseau must be gathered. Phemy had not been ecstatic about the choice of husband at first, but she had given in with good grace.
‘You’re no beauty, Mistress Phemy,’ Letitia reminded her. ‘Think yourself verra fortunate a gudeman’s willing to have you.’
Soon Griselle, who was of course now a married lady herself and in an ‘interesting condition’, and Letitia were enjoying themselves helping Phemy with her shopping. They bought wrapping gowns, and powder-gowns and hoops and skirts and petticoats and garters, and ruffles and night-clothes and aprons, all trimmed with lace.
It was on one of these shopping expeditions to the warerooms of John Bogle and then to some booths in the Gallowgate that Phemy spied some of the linen that Jessie was supposed to have stolen.
On questioning the shopkeeper, it was discovered that he had bought it from a packman who had been passing through the town on his way to Edinburgh. The packman had sworn he had come by it honestly, saying that it had been given to him by a distraught widower who was anxious to get rid of his domestic goods and leave the house of grief where his young wife had died in tragic circumstances.
‘Wicked lies,’ wailed Phemy. ‘The packman’s the one who stole your linen, Mother. It wasn’t poor Jessie after all.’
‘Aye, weel, I’m glad to hear it,’ said Letitia primly. ‘It’s a bad day when servants canna be trusted.’
‘Will you tell the bellman? It’s only fair to see that her name
is cleared, is it not?’
‘Indeed, Mistress Phemy. You’ve no need to ask. I’ve always been a verra fair-minded woman.’
And so the bellman bawled through the streets that Jessie Chisholm recently hangit for stealing linen had not in fact stolen anything at all.
Gav listened, his face grey with anger.
‘I knew my mammy wasn’t a thief. I hate them for murdering her.’
Quin said: ‘Oh-ho, murder, is it?’
‘They murdered her.’ Gav fought to keep his lips from trembling. ‘I hate them.’
‘Quin keeps telling you, Gav, it’s different for folks with money.’
Gav’s jaw set and he glowered at Quin.
‘Murder’s murder! I don’t care how much money these bloody tobacco merchants or their bloody families have.’
Quin rubbed his ear.
‘Oh-ho, that’s dangerous talk, Gavie. Dangerous talk. Could you no’ just hate another wee beggar like yoursel’, eh?’
But before Gav could answer both he and Quin were startled by a sudden shout that echoed recklessly down the street.
‘Catch that wee red-headed rascal. He’s wanted by Merchant Ramsay!’
Without waiting to see who set up the cry, Quin and Gav gusted round the nearest corner like the wind. Then in and out through the maze of back closes they raced until the voices faded away further and further behind them.
‘Phew!’ puffed Quin eventually. ‘Quin’s no’ as young as he used to be, eh!’
‘It’s all right. We’ve lost them.’
Gav felt suddenly spent. But it was more the intensity of his emotions than from his physical exertion. Thoughts about his mother had stirred memories of Regina. He missed her acutely and worried about her all the time. He longed for some assurance that she was safe.
At that very moment Regina was thinking much the same about him and her emotions kept tugging at her and tiring her too. Life was becoming more and more frightening and bewildering. From her own eavesdropping and that of other servants she picked up a continuous flow of confusing gossip and information. Nancy, especially, knew a great deal that was going on because she had, it seemed, bewitched one of the chieftains. She was equally catched by him because often late at night she would whisper to Regina:
‘You see to the mistress if she calls before morning. I’m away to lie with my big handsome Highlander.’
Regina did not mind so much if she was left to sleep on the floor inside Annabella’s bedroom. But if Lavelle was there, and he usually was, she had to sleep outside in the corridor. Only she never slept because she was so terrified that some of the other Frenchies or Irishmen might suddenly appear and grab her. And each time Lavelle came she hated him all the more. She hated the whole Jacobite army for causing the danger and insecurity of her existence. She did not know where they were going or what they were doing except that they were retreating. Yet why they should be retreating she could not fathom because it seemed they were still winning every battle.
After struggling through heavy snow, the Prince and Lord Murray’s divisions had reunited at Inverness. They had taken Fort George, Fort Augustus and Fort William. A raid on government outposts in Atholl was brilliantly successful and later, when on the point of taking Blair Castle which was occupied by government forces, Lord George Murray was recalled by Sir Thomas Sheridan. Murray suspected that it had been Sheridan or O’Sullivan who was also responsible for changing the orders about the rendezvous of the troops.
The Prince was now spending most of his time shooting, fishing and dancing. He had either recovered his original optimism or he was putting on a very good front of nonchalance, or he had just lost all interest in everyday military matters. The chiefs were inclined to the belief that his favoured circle of Irish advisers were so flattering him and so softening and distorting every harsh fact that the Prince was becoming more and more divorced from the realities of the situation. That the Irish mercenaries, or ‘gentlemen of fortune’ as they preferred being called, or ‘wild geese’ as they were nicknamed, were the Prince’s favourites and that he felt gratitude towards them there could be no doubt. He was continually anxious to know if he had rewarded them with suitable commissions and honours. The Irishmen seemed to blend more smoothly and easily with the type of men and the life Charles Edward had been used to. They were, for a start, of the same religion as himself. They were gay, charming, honey-spoken yet volatile, and they, like the Prince, were genuinely shocked and deeply disturbed by the way in which the Scottish chiefs could argue with, contradict and even disobey royal wishes and commands. Believing as they did in the Divine Right of Kings (as also did the chiefs, it had to be admitted) it was inconceivable that such behaviour could stem from anything except villainous treachery. And to support their case they could point to Highlanders like old Simon Fraser, wily Lord Lovat, ‘the fox of the Forty-Five’, who acted as a government man and was feeding information down to London, yet keeping a foot in both camps by sending his son to lead his clan of Fräsers for the old cause. It was also remembered that although Lord George Murray had as so many young men fought for King James in the 1715 rebellion, he had afterwards asked for and received a pardon from the English government. But whatever the Prince’s reasons for favouring the Irish, the fact remained that his Irish advisers began issuing orders without consulting the Prince. This was causing great confusion to everyone. Every effort made by the Scottish chiefs and nobles to organise their army was liable to be countermanded. With the command split, the rank-and-file were encouraged to ignore orders and began to deteriorate into a rabble. They were becoming more and more dispersed. The Prince’s war-chest was empty and his men were without pay or meals. They had, as a result, to go foraging for food and could not be easily assembled when the need arose. But the Prince was not able to face these facts and this inability was steadily widening the breach between him and his long-suffering commander, Lord George Murray.
There were angry murmurs among all the chiefs about the Prince’s growing habit of surrounding himself with Irishmen. As loyal and courageous as the Highland chiefs in battle, they might well be, although O’Sullivan had a nervous disorder and when he was upset he would retire to bed for frequent bleedings. In Lord George’s opinion he was an idiot who fought wars in his nightcap. But the ability of the Irishmen to advise in military matters had over and over again proved them not only wrong-headed but in O’Sullivan’s case muddle-headed and completely ignorant of the character of the Highlander.
Nancy told Annabella: ‘The chiefs are still loyal to their prince but they are beginning to feel badly used. They did not give up all their land and everything they owned to be ordered about like common soldiers by Irish mercenaries. Or indeed treated by the Prince as being no different from ordinary soldiers. They are given no respect for their titles and position, while at the same time His Royal Highness heaps honours on his Irish favourites.’
But Annabella was not much interested in either political or military matters. She just laughed and said:
‘So, Nancy, you have captured your gentleman at last, and a fellow countryman just as you said. You are an uncommonly determined wench. And he is a fine big strapping fellow. I have never made love with a bearded man. Maybe I’ll have to try with him.’
Nancy’s eyes flashed a warning. ‘I will kill anyone who lays a finger on him.’
Annabella laughed again.
‘Have no fear, Nancy. You may keep your big bearded Highlander. I am perfectly content with my handsome, clean-shaven Frenchman.’
‘You’re more than content, mistress,’ Nancy said. ‘I can see that, and now I know how you feel.’
‘Do you?’ Annabella avoided Nancy’s eyes and Regina noticed a level of emotion that she had not suspected Mistress Annabella capable of. ‘Oh, Nancy, Nancy,’ Annabella said.
19
IT was time for ‘the occasion’ of open-air communion, and Ramsay guided his horse with ill-concealed impatience through the hundreds of people crowding
along the road and overflowing into the fields on either side. Nearby an old laird with his gudewife riding side-saddle behind him called out:
‘Aye, it would fit them better to put a jerk on and march along smartly instead of dallying and giggling and capering about and holding up the horses.’
But even some folk on horseback were in no hurry, Ramsay noticed; folk like his son Douglas in laced three-cornered hats, gay-coloured gilt-braided coats, and jackboots, and their ladies in silken plaids of scarlet, yellow, purple and orange making the countryside seem alive with flowers.
Then suddenly a ripple of excitement quickened everyone’s pace. Through a shimmering curtain of trees, flashes of white could be detected. These were the white cloths that covered the communion tables in the field where the occasion was being held. Old women in mutches and ploughmen, bent with a lifetime’s hard labour, earnestly concentrated in bustling forward as fast as rheumaticky limbs could carry them. Young women, pink with excitement, pushed and wriggled towards the front, and children skipped away and became separated from parents.
As soon as Ramsay reached the communion field he dismounted and secured his horse. Then he strode along, palms thumping behind his back towards the wooded erections like sentry-boxes that were called ‘tents’. It was in these tents that the ministers, dressed in their bob-wigs and blue or grey coats and cravats, gave long ‘action’ services before handing out the elements. An enthusiastic minister like the Reverend Blackadder was referred to as ‘an affectionate weeping preacher’. He could enrapture the crowds so much that, moved by his strenuous roaring, ranting voice, they burst into tears and sighs and groans.
Then before the people lined up for communion the Reverend Blackadder ‘fenced’ the tables, debarring from them all unclean and unworthy persons. In his fencing address he reminded them of St Paul’s words: ‘Whoso eateth and drinketh unworthily, eateth and drinketh damnation to himself.’ Then he went on to enumerate in detail the various sins which rendered people unfit to take part in the ‘sealing ordinances’. He rolled his eyes heavenwards and cried out:
The Tobacco Lords Trilogy Page 23
