Surely these pretty little dresses had been worn by no ragamuffin little urchin, but by a little lady, just as her father said.
“If only I hadna failed ye, Jamie, my bairn . . . ye would hae been a gran’ lady someday!” Her father’s dying words tumbled back into her mind across the years.
“Ye didna fail, Papa!” she cried, the tears beginning to flow down her cheeks. At that moment Jamie knew nothing of lost property or bad investments or dreams that would never be. How could she understand the heartaches of a broken man?
He was her papa!
What else could matter alongside that? As she knelt on the dirt floor of her grandfather’s byre, she was seven years old again in mind and emotions. Her father represented only the highest qualities of achievement. He had been the world to her, and could never be a failure!
She would prove it!
She would prove that her father’s word had meaning, that he had not died in vain, that his final words would not go unfulfilled.
“Ye didna fail, Papa!” she repeated, sobbing in earnest now. “Oh, Papa . . . I will—I will be a lady fer ye, Papa! Ye’ll see!”
Without her knowing, all at once the angst of unrest which had been plaguing her soul for months suddenly crystallized into purpose.
This was the thing that had been unfinished. It had been so important to him that he had spent his last words on it. This had been her father’s dream—to be somebody in the world! His distant gaze had always been searching the horizons of life for something more. Even as he died they had been preparing to follow his gaze to Aberdeen, to the sea, where his dreams awaited fulfillment.
She would follow that dream!
She would give meaning to her father’s life by doing what his life had been cut too short to do. She would go to Aberdeen! She would find what he had been looking for! She would be the lady he had wanted her to be!
With mounting joy she recalled her grandfather’s smiling face. Of course, he knew all about it too! No longer did she have to lose his approval. He had released her to do what she now could see she had always been compelled to do.
Suddenly Jamie came back to herself, and to the present.
She looked down at herself, kneeling on a dirt floor in a broken-down highland byre, dressed in ragged boy’s garb.
She was no lady!
She was no longer the sweet seven-year-old child who had worn these dresses, either. She was nothing but a shepherd, a backward mountain waif who could hardly read and knew about nothing but animals and mountains.
How could she ever hope to be a lady?
Was it a dream like those of her father, destined to remain only in the eye of her mind, unfulfilled to the end of her days?
With a sigh she laid the dresses back into the trunk. In the semidarkness her hand fell upon the book. She clutched it and drew it out. With a deep breath she opened it and peered at the inside cover in the faint light of the growing dawn. If she thought her halting lessons would make everything intelligible, she was greatly disappointed. Printed letters she could recognize, but this handwritten script was altogether different than anything she had seen. Occasionally something looked familiar, but she could make nothing of the content of the personal inscription. Of only one thing she was certain—at the end of the message was signed the single name Alice.
Again Jamie began to weep. If only she could read it!
She closed the trunk and slowly walked to the door of the byre. The gray of dawn had spread over the bleak winter landscape. She looked about her. All was still and quiet.
Slowly from the depths of Jamie’s dawning adulthood arose a sense of resolution. She had always possessed a strength and determination. It had been that determination which always found the lost sheep, which had learned the ways of Donachie as thoroughly as her mentor himself knew them, which had begun to learn to read. But now something even greater was calling her. And with boldness and resolve she would meet the challenge.
She would learn to read! She would read her mama’s book!
And she would go to Aberdeen, and learn to be a lady!
She wiped the remaining tears from her eyes—there was no time for that now. A task lay before her—a task at which she could not fail.
For the sake of her father, she would not fail!
By midmorning Jamie was ready to bid farewell to Finlay’s old cottage, her home of ten years. What lay ahead she had no idea. But she did know that what she must do could not be done upon the beloved heights of Donachie.
She packed her few belongings in an old rucksack, taking her mother’s book and the strange bauble her father had given her the night he had died. With space only for what was necessary, she left the dresses which had so stirred her emotions. But as she laid them into the trunk after one final look, she softly declared, “I’ll come back fer ye.”
She filled the animals’ feeding troughs. It would be enough until she reached the factor’s and he sent someone up to care for them. She patted the thick woolen bodies of the sheep, then walked inside the byre one last time and ran her hand along Missy’s sleek flank.
Thick clouds had begun amassing in the sky toward the eastern slope of the mountain, but she took no notice. Nor did she heed the steadily increasing wind. Her mind was set, and nothing could stop her now. Pulling her coat tightly up around her neck she marched down the path toward the estate of Aviemere, where she would speak to the factor before proceeding.
As the path wound behind a group of rocks, Jamie stopped and turned back. The cottage suddenly looked so forlorn against the winter’s sky and gray granite of its surroundings. Snow here and there lay in drifts, but all else was muddy and brown.
“I will come back,” she said to herself. Then aloud, as if to reassure an old friend she was not deserting her home, “I will come back!”
She turned back and walked out of sight down the path. Her past was behind her now. The future lay ahead.
She breathed in the crisp mountain air. It felt good in her lungs—exhilarating. She refused to allow the thought to surface that perhaps she might never walk this path again, or might never again see the dell bursting with springtime. Her step remained firm. She would not be deterred from her purpose. And she would come back.
Preoccupied with her thoughts, Jamie took no notice of the rapid approach of the storm. It was not until she was fully in the midst of the wind and wild flurry of suddenly falling snow that she realized this was no mild inconsequential squall. Fully accustomed to the harsh and sudden weather changes of Donachie, she yet continued on. It would have been futile to turn back now, for she was already halfway down the mountain. Therefore she pressed forward toward her goal.
The winds rose, lashing at her from every side. The snow came in earnest now, making it more and more difficult to see. It had already begun to accumulate on the path. The flakes were huge and dry, and falling as in a blanket of swirling white. Within an hour the full force of the blizzard had assailed her.
Jamie tramped on, wiping the snow from her face every several minutes, now growing cold from the biting wind.
Nothing was familiar now. She had never come this far with her grandfather. And the path had grown obliterated with white.
She stopped and looked about.
Had she gotten turned around or taken a wrong fork in the path? Something didn’t seem right. She knew Aviemere lay ahead of her. But—
It must be the snow that made things look so odd!
She turned and continued on.
She could now see barely two feet in front of her. Still the wind increased in its fury, and nothing could abate the rapidly falling snow. For another hour she marched stoically on, freezing now, but afraid to stop. There could be no thought of going back. Whatever path she had been following had been gone from her sight for hours. But Aviemere lay at the bottom of the mountain, and toward the downhill direction she turned whenever there was uncertainty.
Gradually the storm let up. The wind died down and all became still
about her. Jamie stopped. Frantically she glanced about to get her bearings. She should have come to the valley road by now! Which way could it be? In the distance, yes!—she could just see something—lights! It must be Aviemere!
But . . . but . . . she had not come to the road!
Perhaps she had crossed it already without knowing it. She would make for the lights—she was almost there!
With renewed energy she struggled forward. Again the snow began to fall, but she steadfastly plowed through the snow—now halfway to her knees—in the direction of the estate. A huge drift across her path forced her to change directions once more, but she worked her way around it, and continued on.
Suddenly the storm seemed to redouble its ferocity. Jamie’s limbs were all but frozen now. She had lost sight of the lights, but they had to be in this direction! How could she take another step? It was so cold! Every movement now was agony!
The shadows of descending darkness began to fall. The road—where?—oh! where were the lights? She had just seen them, but now they were gone. Oh! Lord, help me! Jamie thought. I’ve lost my way! I will look with mine een t’ the hills . . . oh, hoo does it gae . . . I’ve forgotten, Gran’daddy! By now she should have been within the warmth of George Ellice’s house, sipping a steaming cup of tea.
But she had to stop, just for a moment. A short rest. She would find some secluded spot, behind a drift, out of the wind. If she could just sit down for a moment—only for a moment—just to catch her breath. She was so tired . . . only for a moment!
Jamie had stumbled onto the road, but knew nothing of it. Across it she walked, her feet buried deep in the gathering snow. She sank down onto the icy earth. Still the snow and wind raged around her.
If only she could get out of the wind for a moment or two, then she’d start up again. She had to rest. Just close her eyes . . . she wouldn’t be long.
In a moment she’d get up and start on her way again. But for now, she just had to sleep. Had to—sleep . . .
12
The Sailor
The road had been deserted all day, for who would have dared such a storm? Thus, as night descended—though it was barely past midafternoon—and encased the dreary spot, the lone figure walking jauntily through the storm seemed especially out of place.
The tall, powerfully built man seemed hardly aware of the raging blizzard. Warmly clad, with hands and head comfortably bound and feet enclosed in the most protective of boots, he actually gave the appearance of enjoying it. As he walked he was alternately humming and singing gaily.
“Fifteen men on a dead man’s chest,” he sang. “Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum! Drink and the devil had done for the rest. Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!”
He paused, as if considering the consequences of his words, though he had sung them a hundred times with his shipmates. But perhaps he was only considering their fitness on a day such as this, for then he continued,
“Or perhaps you’d like it better, old Robbie Burns, for me to be saying one of your ballads to the storm! ‘Blow, blow, ye winds, with heavier gust! And freeze, thou bitter-biting frost! Descend, ye chilly, smothering snows!’”
Once again he stopped. “No, that’s not just right for the day either, apologies to you, Sir Burns. But what’s needed on a day like this is a song!”
Again he broke out, this time singing loudly, in another of his favorites from the Scottish bard:
The wintry west extends his blast,
And hail and rain does blaw;
Or the stormy north sends driving forth
The blinding sleet and snaw:
Wild-tumbling brown, the burn comes down,
And roars frae bank to brae:
While bird and beast in covert rest,
And pass the heartless day.
The sweeping blast, the sky o’ercast,
The joyless winter day
Let others fear, to me more dear
Than all the pride of May:
The tempest’s howl, it soothes my soul,
My griefs it seems to join;
The leafless trees my fancy please,
Their fate resembles mine!
If Robbie Taggart did not enjoy the storm, an observer—if one could be found on such a day!—would never have guessed it. All his life long he had relished activity, movement, the open air, and the sheer freedom of being outdoors and under God’s sky. To be under a blue sky on top of a deeper blue sea was his supreme delight. But failing that, any other sky, even one filled with swirling white snow, would do. He had been cooped up in his mother’s home for three long weeks, and when the storm threatened on the morning of his departure he scoffed at it.
Nothing would deter him from his plans!
When he had heard his mother was ill, he had come immediately from Aberdeen to be at her side. But the illness was short-lived, not as serious as originally thought, and now she was back on her feet and well.
“More fit than I, I’ll warrant!” he had laughed as he kissed her goodbye.
Three weeks of peace and quiet, gentle voices, and visits by matronly women who reminded him how small he had been when they had first known him, had almost been more than he could take. And he thanked both Providence and his lucky stars that her sickness had ended when it had. His constitution had not been built for quiet evenings in front of a cheery fire with no solace but a book or two. If the fire came from the hearth of his favorite Aberdeen pub, where there was a good share of raucous laughter and music in the background, that was a different matter. That was the life for him! So much the better with a pretty lass on his arm with whom to dance a rousing jig!
But three weeks in his mother’s cottage in the foothills of the highlands, with no sounds but the groaning of the firs in the wind and the bleating of sheep—no thank you, if you please! Not for Robbie Taggart!
Old Mrs. Taggart knew her son too well by this time. After all, she had raised him. She had seen the wanderlust in his eyes long before it had worked its way down to his feet and sent him off to seek his fortune. She was gratified that he had come when she needed him. He would always come. But she would not dream of deterring him longer than he chose to stay. And she never expected him to stay long. Because not only did she know her son, she had lived twenty years with a man just like him—Robbie’s father.
Hank Taggart had been a traveling peddler whose route spanned the whole of Scotland and even worked his way as far south into England as Manchester. Before his death two years ago, something almost of legendary stature had grown up around him. How much he himself had originated many of the tales of his derring-do might be a question to be asked. Nevertheless, his character and escapades were frequently the topic of conversation among the housewives he served. His oversized horse-cart, with its clattering and clanging assortment of goods from tin pans to farm pails to brushes and ropes and various articles of clothing, as well as so-called “imported” porcelain vases, was always a welcome sight as it jostled down the country roads and lanes. Whether the wives looked forward to his coming for the sake of his merchandise or for the chance to visit again with Hank and his wife, and catch up on whatever new gossip and trivia was working its way from village to village, was a question Hank never bothered himself with. They bought enough to keep him and his family fed and happy. And who could ask for anything more? Hank was a family man, and therefore his wife and young son accompanied him wherever he went.
Thus the conventional meaning of the word “home” was singularly unknown to the boy Robbie Taggart. Home to him was a bouncy wooden wagon and a campfire under a starlit sky. In the winter months they worked their way farther to the south and stayed alternately with Hank’s three brothers. The life could not have suited Robbie better—he loved the movement, the changing scenery, the new faces to meet almost daily. He had indeed been cut out of the same cloth as his father—“a chip off the old block,” as Hank was fond of saying when he introduced his son to his friends. And therefore no one, least of all Hank, thought any the less of th
e boy when at fifteen he decided to strike out on his own. It was just the sort of thing he himself had done at eighteen. Thus old Hank was proud of his boy even as he said goodbye to him. He knew the feeling of becoming too familiar with the oft-traveled roads. He knew his son had to discover for himself what more there was to see out there.
Robbie spent the following three years traveling all over Britain, working at whatever odd jobs presented themselves. But his deepest love was reserved for his homeland, and northward his steps always returned eventually. While he was in Aberdeen, the great port of the north, where fishing vessels and great ships of commerce came to the colorful harbor of the River Dee, the sea stung his fancy. Why should he be bound by earth and rock? If there was more to see in the world, how much more exciting would it be to see it from the deck of a ship! And to what distant foreign lands would the seafaring life open his imagination!
Indeed, the life of the sea proved everything eighteen-year-old Robbie hoped for—new lands, exotic ports, new adventures every day!
He had been out to sea when his father had died. Deeply grieved that his mother had been forced to endure the ordeal alone, when he finally docked and went to see her, he came with genuine humility and not a little guilt. That very day he swore he would give up his wandering life to stay and take care of her.
Her only response had been a hearty laugh.
“I’d sooner die here an’ noo than t’ see ye wither awa t’ nothin’ standin’ here in the same place day upo day. I ne’er held yer father back, an’ certainly willna be holdin’ ye back yersel’! Ye gae see the worl’, Robbie Taggart! Yer daddy’d be prood o’ ye. Jist remember t’ say a prayer fer yer ol’ mither noo an’ then!”
Mrs. Taggart had settled in the little village southwest of Aviemere where her sister lived. Though she would not stand in the way of husband or son, the prospect of remaining in the same place for the rest of her days was comforting.
She had made but one request of him as he had set out again: “Jist come an’ see me noo an’ then, an’ I’ll dee a happy woman!”
“Try to keep me away!” he replied as he hugged her and gave her plump cheek a goodbye kiss.
Jamie MacLeod Page 9
