Summer of Love

by Gian Bordin

  Rose whispered to Helen: "He was quite a catch in his sober days."

  He was still eyeing Rose. "You promised me a whisky. Make it a big one, Rose."

  "I wondered how long it would take you to remember that. Sit!" She went to a cupboard, got bread and sausage and filled a small glass with the amber liquid. She put the food in front of Joe, keeping the glass in her hand, and ordered: "Eat this first and then you get your drink."

  When he started to protest she interrupted him: "Joe, be a good boy and eat and then you get the drink."

  She watched him gobble down the sausage and bread without chewing and then handed him the glass. Then she got more food and told Helen and Owen to eat too, since they might not find time later on anymore.

  It soon became obvious that Joe was incapable of waiting for the appointed hour. After emptying the glass, he began walking back and forth like a caged animal. He wanted to leave. Rose tried to keep him happy with small doses of whisky and cups of strong coffee in between.

  Helen too got more and more on edge. Occasionally, she felt her heart beat suddenly race away. What if something went wrong? What if the jailers won’t leave them alone in the cell? Rose had assured her that they would have privacy, but what if she was wrong? She had a hard time keeping still. She went back to her little room and packed all their things in the saddle bags and then repacked them again. Only Owen seemed to be unaffected by the tension. Even Rose’s temper started to fray.

  Finally, the faint ringing of a church bell announced six o’clock. Rose handed Helen a bottle of whisky with the instruction not to give it to Joe before they were in the prison cell. Helen put on her jacket and the bonnet, took Owen’s hand, and the unlikely trio left the inn by the back entrance. Rose had chosen the hour so that there would be few people in the streets, the workers still toiling in the factories and workshops, the women busily cooking dinner.

  Owen avoided the main streets, so they encountered few people, except for children playing in the back alleys and the occasional women chatting in entrances and falling quiet when they passed, eyeing them suspiciously. They crossed Trongate. As they emerged into the square behind the tolbooth, Owen pressed Helen’s hand in encouragement and whispered: "There’s the entrance. Knock at the wicket, and when the turnkey opens it, show him your pass. I’ll wait for you here. Good luck, Joe." And he retreated into the alley.

  Taking a few deep breaths, Helen hurried after Joe who had already started toward the iron door of the prison entrance, shuffling in his swaying gait.

  "It’ll work just fine, lady. You’ll see!" He smiled, briefly grabbing her arm and leaning over her, his alcohol breath buffeting her face.

  He knocked forcefully at the door. Half a minute later the wicket opened and the framed face of the turnkey peered out.

  "What do you want?" he bellowed.

  Before Helen could speak, Joe answered: "This young lady with me is due to visit her husband, and … er, er, I’m his father." He winked at her.

  "Permit!"

  She handed her entry pass through the small opening. The turnkey studied it and after a minute said: "It says here that Mrs. Campbell is coming to visit Mr. Campbell. Nothing about another person."

  Her heart jumped into her throat. She had asked Rose about this, and the latter had assured her that they weren’t very strict in such matters. What now? But again, Joe replied immediately: "Er, er, I’m his father and just arrived in town this afternoon. I really need a stern word with that young man." Then, turning to her, he whispered: "Give him a few shillings."

  She quickly passed four coins through the opening. Without further delay, the bolt of the lock retracted with a grating noise, and the door opened with a strident, prolonged squeak. The bulky turnkey blocked the entrance. He looked them over carefully and, apparently reassured, stepped aside. The heavy door closed behind them with a loud clunk, and the turnkey locked it immediately.

  Now that they were inside the prison, she was suddenly calm and alert. They had entered a small, barren guard room, from which a narrow staircase led to higher floors, and two low entrances opened into dark corridors at the same level. All were secured by solid iron grilles. On the wall hung several sets of hand and leg irons and bundles of keys.

  The turnkey had two pistols stuck in his belt and carried a broadsword. He ordered Helen to open her handbag for inspection. That was one thing Rose hadn’t mentioned. She went hot and cold. She had a sharp knife in it for shaving Andrew. If he found it, their plan would be wrecked.

  The turnkey took the handbag and searched it. The whisky bottle was on top. He looked down each side of it and then handed the bag back to her, grinning: "I see you brought something to fortify your husband. He’s a lucky man. We don’t serve that kind of liquid in this fine establishment."

  For a moment, she failed to take the bag, feeling her ears growing hot, and then uttered an embarrassed "Yes." She could hardly trust her luck.

  With a loud shout that echoed through the corridors, the turnkey summoned one of the jailers, and after consulting a large book instructed him to conduct the pair to cell seventeen on the second floor. This time, she needed no hint. After the jailer had opened the door to Andrew’s cell, she gave him two shillings and begged him to wait outside, gracing him with a charming smile. They entered, and he locked the door behind them again.

  "Oh, Helen," exclaimed Andrew and jumped up from the straw mattress on the narrow bunk at the far end of the cell, just under the window. He rushed to her and embraced her, holding her tightly, stroking her hair, searching her eyes. "I love you," he whispered in Gaelic.

  Then he noticed Joe, let go of her and asked in a low voice: "Who is he?"

  "Does the jailer understand Gaelic?" she whispered.

  "No, why?"

  "Joe here and I have come to spring you from prison," she explained in Gaelic.

  Joe had already removed his peruke and was struggling to take off his long waistcoat.

  "You’ll dress in his clothes. Then you and I will leave together, while he takes your place. It’s all planned out carefully—"

  Andrew interrupted her: "Wait, I cannot let somebody else take my place and be convicted in my stead. What are you thinking, Helen?"

  "We have no time to lose. Just do as I tell you. He won’t be convicted. He’ll get drunk and then claim that he can’t remember anything."

  She took the bottle of whisky from her bag. Joe grabbed it eagerly, pulled out the cork with his teeth, and immediately gulped down several swigs. Wiping his mouth, he beamed with a satisfied grin: "Oh, that feels good… Come, master Andrew. Do as your lady tells you."

  Andrew looked from one to the other.

  "Andrew, please. We’ve no time to lose. Get out of your coat and I’ll shave you. I brought a sharp blade."

  She wetted a small towel with the water in the jug on the little table and began soaking Andrew’s beard. Confused, he let her do it. With careful movements, she trimmed the beard very close and, after soaking it again, shaved the stubble. Seeing his confused gaze, she smiled and kissed his clean cheek.

  "Put on this peruke," she ordered.

  He grimaced in disgust when he saw its filth. In fact, she had never seen him wear a hairpiece.

  "No time to be picky! Put it on," she urged. "And now the waistcoat!"

  She held it open for him. Then she placed Joe’s hat on Andrew’s head such that it shaded his eyes, the same way Joe had worn it. Finally, she tied Joe’s red kerchief around his neck and took a step back to appraise the result. "Yes, I think that will do."

  In the meantime, Joe had put on Andrew’s short coat. She went over to him, put Andrew’s beret on his head, hiding most of his greying hair. Switching to English she murmured: "Now Joe, take another swallow from that bottle, and then lie on the bed. Turn to the wall and don’t move until the jailer has locked the door behind us. Hear me, Joe?"

  He nodded, holding the bottle protectively against his chest.

  "Don’t worry, I won’t ta
ke the bottle. You need it."

  He grinned, took another swig, and slumped onto the mattress.

  "But won’t he talk when he’s drunk?" Andrew whispered.

  "Not according to Rose. Apparently, nobody will get a word out of him, even if they put glowing iron to his soles."

  "And what if we’re caught?"

  "You’ll hardly be in more trouble that you already are! Come, let’s go now."

  "But you?"

  "I’ll be in trouble too, then. I might as well be if you are."

  She quickly gathered the beard hair and hid them inside the mattress. Touching Joe’s shoulder, so murmured: "Thank you, Joe."

  "It’s my pleasure, lady," he chuckled.

  She checked the cell briefly, adjusted Andrew’s hat a bit, and whispered: "Keep your face down!" Then she knocked at the door, calling: "Guard! … Sir, we’re ready to leave!"

  After a few seconds, they heard footsteps, the door opened, and they stepped into the dark corridor. The jailer briefly looked into the cell, locked it, and then led them back to the spiral staircase. Now comes the real test, went through her mind, as they entered the guard room.

  The turnkey scrutinized them for several seconds, grinning. Helen had that sinking feeling of defeat.

  "Already leaving? … You know, lady, you could’ve stayed longer. But that’s your business."

  He turned and unlocked the iron door. For a second, she hesitated. She could hardly believe it. He hadn’t noticed the switch. Andrew nudged her gently, and she walked out the door. We’re out! It was so easy! were her jubilant thoughts. She hooked her arm into Andrew’s and they walked briskly along the tolbooth to the alley where she had left Owen.

  They had not gone more than thirty feet when Owen caught up with them from behind.

  "Lady, there are four suspicious-looking Highlanders hiding in the alley. Let’s leave by another way. Hurry please!"

  He dashed ahead across the square to a close that led into High Street, rather than the Trongate, the way they had come. Taking Helen’s hand, Andrew hurried after him. He didn’t dare to run. This might draw them to the attention of the guards, should any be watching the square. They had almost reached the narrow entrance where Owen was waving frantically, when four men charged into the square and came running after them.

  "Quick," urged Owen, "follow me!"

  He rushed ahead, down the dark close between two rows of four-storey tenement houses, barely six feet apart. Partway down it was blocked by a brick wall. With surprising agility, Owen climbed it, finding hidden footholds where none could be seen. Andrew lifted Helen halfway up onto a small ledge in the corner.

  "Come up here, sir. You can pull your lady up from here."

  With difficulties Andrew scrambled up the wall. The sounds of running feet came rapidly closer. Just as he straddled the top and began to slide over to Helen, the first of their pursuer got to the wall and grabbed her feet. She lost her footing and fell away, desperately trying to hold on to the top of the wall. Her hand slipped from his grasp just as he reached for it. Four arms caught her at the base of the wall. Oh, no, it’s father, was her frightened thought. But the moment her feet were on firm ground, she began to yell and kick and punch her attackers. Dougal’s big hand quickly smothered her screams. She looked up the wall and saw Andrew ready to jump down to her. No, don’t! run! she wanted to shout, but could only shake her head violently.

  16

  "I told you we would catch her if we watched the tolbooth," bragged Robert, as he and Dougal dragged the struggling Helen along the narrow alley, the other two walking behind. "I knew it. I knew it."

  "Yes, you were right," answered Dougal, with an edge of exasperation. "Come, lass, stop fighting. It’s no use. Or do I have to slap you?"

  He is right, agreed Helen silently. There was no point getting a black eye, now that Andrew got away safely.

  "That is better. Your mother will be glad to see you," said Dougal, a pleased tone in his voice.

  So he had no intention of killing me. Strangely, she didn’t feel relieved.

  Robert sneered immediately: "After she got a good hiding! You said that would set her right. You said so yourself."

  Helen met his insipid grin with a hateful glare.

  "Oh, oh, she has lost none of her fiery temper. But I’ll tame her once we’re married."

  "I’ll never marry you. I have a husband already. I married Andrew last Saturday," she replied coldly.

  "That will hardly matter, lass," retorted Dougal. "We will find a minister who will marry you again. Anyway, didn’t master Andrew get arrested on the same day? So we can claim that the marriage was never consummated and can be annulled."

  "But it was consummated. I’m with child."

  Her father frowned for just a moment and then grinned: "Good try, lass, but I was not born yesterday. I know that you have your woman’s pains just shortly after your mother and she had them three weeks ago. So if you know that you are with child, and I don’t believe you, it cannot be master Andrew’s."

  Helen blushed. She hated being caught in a blatant lie like this. Robert snickered. A strong revulsion rose in her. How could she ever have agreed to marry this bully? But he had not been such a bully, then.

  They walked along silently for a short stretch. Suddenly, Robert broke out laughing, gasping between bouts: "Isn’t it hilarious that your lover boy gets copped for stealing a horse lifted by your cousins? We rolled over laughing when we found out, didn’t we, Fergus? You recognize your cousin Fergus?"

  "That was real mean of your father to sell Andrew a stolen horse, Fergus."

  The lad answered with a loud laugh, and Robert had another case of the snickers. "Anyway, your lover boy will soon be on his way to the colonies. I hear they die like flies there! Saves us killing him," he sneered.

  They hadn’t recognized Andrew! She ground her teeth together so as not to rise to his bait and looked straight ahead. All at once, her spirits seemed lighter. She was certain that Andrew would rescue her. She only hoped he would keep a low profile and wait until they were on their way back to Killin, rather than try something in the city and risk getting caught again.

  "Hello, Helen," she heard her brother from behind. "It’s good to see you again."

  "Hello, Robin. I’m disappointed that you act against your own sister like this."

  Robin answered with an embarrassed chuckle. "I could hardly let my own blood run away with a Campbell of Argyle, could I, sister?"

  No, probably not. "I see, blood runs thicker than water, as your father says when he runs out of arguments."

  "Right you are, sister!" exclaimed Robin, with a short laugh, while her father faced her angrily.

  "You will learn the truth of that sooner or later too, lass," he grumbled.

  Helen ignored him and asked Robin: "How’s Betty?"

  "She was very upset when she heard that we were going after you."

  "Tell her, I miss her."

  Robin pressed out another laugh, while Dougal growled: "Lass, you’ll soon be able to tell her yourself."

  "Not if I can prevent it, father," she murmured.

  Suddenly, he asked: "Who was that man and the boy?"

  For a short moment her heart missed a beat. "The boy is the son of the innkeeper where I stay. He showed me the way to the tolbooth. The man is a clerk of my solicitor. He came with me to talk to Andrew."

  "Ah, the lady has her own solicitor now," sneered Robert again with a derisive laugh.

  "Stop riling her, lad!" said Dougal sharply. "You better try to mend things if you want to live with her in peace."

  "I’ll tame her; you just wait."

  "Not by getting her mad all the time, nor will I allow you to mistreat her. You hear me!"

  It was said rather forcefully. Robert’s face became somber, but he seemed to make a strong effort to control his temper.

  "Thank you, father," said Helen.

  "Don’t thank me yet. I am not finished with you, lass. You will get y
our punishment. And this time, you won’t give me the slip either, I promise!" His angry tone of voice made it obvious that he meant it. "Making me chase you all through the Lowlands. You never went to Edinburgh, didn’t you? We searched every inn there," he ended up muttering.

  So he didn’t discover that they had left the road, went through her mind.

  "And where are you staying?" he continued.

  "I won’t tell you." The firmness of her voice left little doubt that he wouldn’t get that out of her.

  "It doesn’t matter. You left with nothing and you will come home with nothing, except this new dress. I saw you already did some shopping. That blue dress you wore in the church in Stirling suited you. Too bad you have to leave it behind. I doubt Robert will ever buy you anything that nice."

  "Oh, it’s unlike you to notice a beautiful dress. Andrew liked it too. He’ll buy me many more fine gowns," she parried his sarcasm.

  "Not while he labors in chains in the colonies," laughed Robert.

  Helen ignored him. Nothing vexed him more than being ignored, she remembered well.

  They emerged into Trongate. The first workers and clerks began to fill the wide street on their way home.

  "And now, lass, you better behave! I don’t want any fuss, or you will regret it badly."

  For a moment she was tempted to break loose. Her body must have tensed up slightly and Dougal sensed her intention. His grip tightened and he strode out faster. Without any further talk, they went down King Street and turned left on Bridgegate, where they entered a short alley on the south side leading to the Inn of the Golden Eagle. Dougal took her up two flights of stairs to a sizable room, with bedding strewn all over the floor. All four of them must have slept here for a night or two already. He made her to sit on a chair and tied her arms and legs securely to it.

  "Sorry, lass," he said, as he did it. "We cannot take any chances. You brought this upon yourself."

  "Will you untie me if I promise not to run away, father?"