In Loving Memory (4 page)

Chapter 6

1st April, 1820

By halfway through the morning on the first of April, Ewan and his brother, Scott, and sister Fiona had already managed to play several innocent, yet highly amusing April Fool jokes on each other and even amazingly on Mammy.

There was great hilarity when Maggie, playing up to the story that there was a big black spider on the back of her chair, immediately leapt to her feet and let out a terrified scream. Scott and Fiona were giggling uncontrollably, Ewan was doubled up with mirth and Maggie was still going through an exaggerated performance of seeking desperately in every nook and cranny for non-existent spiders.

At that point Fergus came into the cottage, his face aglow with excitement.

“Maggie, Maggie, listen ye’ll never believe what Ah’ve jist seen ...”

He got no further before Maggie dissolved in a fit of almost girlish-like giggles.

“Too late. Fergus, you should have been in half an hour ago, we’ve already done the spider-joke ... the children are way ahead of you on this ploy.”

With a puzzled frown on his face, Fergus said, “Spiders? What spiders? What are ye on aboot woman? Uch Ah see what it is, it’s April Fool jokes you’ve been playing on each other. Weel, just wait till ye hear what I’ve seen this day ...”

As Maggie and the children waited to hear what joke Fergus had managed to think up, he said, “I’ve just seen a historic letter posted up on walls all over the place A Proclamation, no less, calling for all Scottish workers to take part in a national strike.”

Maggie laughed. “Well, that must the April Fool joke to beat all. A national strike indeed, who could possibly have thought that one up?”

Just as she finished speaking, the hour of noon struck on the wag-at-the-wall and Fergus said, “That’s the time up for this year, any more April Fool jokes are too late. But Ah tell ye this, that Proclamation Ah mentioned, there’s nothing April Foolish about that. It’s true, Maggie. In fact, Ah’m that excited aboot it. Ah can hardly think straight. Uch, sit ye doon, lass, Ah’ll tell ye all aboot it.”

As Maggie listened in growing wonder, when he had finished speaking, she said, “Sorry, I still don’t believe it. You mean to tell me in all honesty that as well as calling on workers to strike, it also told them to rise up in arms... Liberty or Death... is that it?”

He nodded “Aye, it seems Proclamation posters are everywhere, it even says on them... ‘We have sworn to return home in triumph or return no more.’”

Maggie frowned. “A lot of damned nonsense if you ask me. Who would have written such a thing unless for a clever April Fool?”

He grinned, then in his excitement, leant over and grasped both her hands in his.

“Dae ye not see it, Maggie, it’s true; all true, that’s the wonderful thing, we’re on oor way at last. All our meetings, our speeches, our rallies, they’ve all worked. All our hard work, our devotion to the cause, it’s all come to fruition, surely ye see that?”

Maggie tutted. “What sticks in my throat is, who would write such things, a call to arms, no less.”

Fergus removed one hand and tapped the table for even greater emphasis.

“Yes...” he paused, took a deep breath then said, “It’s signed by none other than... wait for it... none other than ‘The Committee of Organization for Forming a Provisional Government’. Sensational development or what? There noo, Maggie, and just what dae ye think of that?”

Maggie removed her hands from where they still lay on the table and clasping her hands in her lap, she frowned. “What I think is that you’d be mad, utterly mad to get any further involved in this than you already are. Good God, Fergus, have you forgotten so soon? It’s only a matter of weeks since you buried your dear twin brother. And let us not forget that it was involvement in Radical activities that brought him to such a tragic end. Have you learnt nothing?”

Fergus got noisily to his feet. “Oh, Ah’ve learnt something all right... that my wife is dead-set against my involvement. Well, sorry to disappoint ye, but the next few days and weeks will be vital and Ah for one will be helping the cause, the fight for our freedom in every way I possibly can.”

Maggie opened her mouth to protest but Fergus spoke first, “And just so there’s no doubt, if it comes to it, Ah’ll march into battle with the militant weavers, the Paisley Radicals, and ye’ll not stop me.”

She held out a placatory hand, but her husband would have none of it.

He waved away her hand and with eyes ablaze with determination and zeal for the cause, he said, “This Proclamation is certainly the end o all oor radical work. The Paisley crowd, they’ve been planning for this stage for months past now, just unsure when the actual call to arms would come. But see yon Paisley weavers... they’ve woven cartridge webs on their own looms, even made their own special weapon, the Radical Cleg. Aye, they’ve even had their own banknotes printed in anticipation of this great day. Oh, the next stage is vital, Ah must get into the very thick o it.”

Maggie pursed her lips. “I suppose that’s the last I’ll see of you for weeks on end now, is it, and long nights of worry all over again. Uch to hell with it, Fergus Bell, to hell with you and your Radical Clegs, whatever they might be, but before you head off into battle, one thing I will say... You’re maybe forgetting that with Government spies in your midst, they might be the writers of the Proclamation and if that’s so, not only will it drive out into the open such rabid Radicals as yourself, but one day history books will record the Proclamation as the biggest April Fool joke ever played on anyone. Far less the entire nation of Scotland. Yes, some April Fool’s day this has been and that’s not spiders I’m talking about.”

Chapter 7

As Maggie knew well from past experience, it was one thing to say that she would no longer worry as to what could, might or would happen to Fergus on his Radical business comings and goings, but it was quite another thing to put her brave words into practice.

On the second day of April in sharp contrast to the high jinks, fun and games of the previous day, the atmosphere in the cottage could not have been more different. With Fergus gone, God alone knew where and by now doubtless irrevocably engaged in what appeared to be little less than a revolution, Maggie was already engulfed in a dark cloud of the deepest depression.

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?”