The Hanging of Margaret Dickson (15 page)

Maggie's face turns white. ‘Oh no, I cannot face them.'

‘You need to hurry then, lassie. Bring the children to me when you are ready and don't let me down.'

***

There is no better incentive than the stool of repentance to make haste. However, in order to travel from parish to parish, Maggie needs a testificate of character from the holy men she seeks to avoid. But there's one hope – Minister Robert Bonaloy. He's the only one who might be willing to help.

In a blind panic she gathers together the children's belongings.

Maggie rises early in the morning; there's much to do. At the back of the pigsty she drops to her hands and knees and rakes through soiled hay for her pot of hoarded money. It's a disgusting task. As soon as the precious hoard rests within her hands, Maggie divides the money, placing half of it in a basket containing the children's clothes, and the other half in her stays. The pig and goat crowd around her, pushing their noses into her skirts. She hasn't really the time to take them but they'll starve if she leaves them alone. So along the brae she marches, with two snot-nosed children, a pig and a goat. They receive plenty of curious stares on their way to the widow's house, and if the pig didn't keep running away, they'd have got there much quicker.

At the widow's house, Maggie crouches to her knees to embrace her children. ‘Now then, Anna, Patrick, come to Mother. Why the long faces? I'll not be gone long and I will bring you something when I return.'

‘Why can't we come with you?' asks little Patrick, his bottom lip quivering.

She has to turn away to gather her thoughts. A moment passes before she looks at them again, and their little faces near break her heart.

‘Oh, I wish that I could take you with me, but it is too far away for your little legs to walk. I won't be gone long,' she gives them both a kiss on the cheek, nods to the widow and runs from the cottage before she changes her mind.

‘Maggie, wait. What about food for the bairns and the animals?' Widow Arrock stands in the doorway, little faces peep out from behind it. ‘Get inside the cottage, Patrick, Anna. I won't be a moment.'

‘Look inside the children's belongings, there's a bag with more than enough money. And if you need any help with the children, ask Jean Ramsay.'

The widow's beady eyes widen and one brow arches. ‘Where did you get the… oh, never mind. Get gone, before I have second thoughts.'

***

Minister Bonaloy does her proud. Tucked beneath a rock at the bottom of Inveresk Kirk is the testificate Maggie needs to travel. With her testimony of character stuffed safely in hand, she descends the steep hill, flanked by huge stone walls overgrown with moss and ivy. Near the hay market, she climbs on-board a corn cart bound for Newcastle. And it's not until she passes Figgat Burn that she remembers that she's not said goodbye to her father or James.

***

During his first week, Patrick is given one of the most difficult and unpleasant tasks at sea, the devil to pay. Of course, as most able seamen know, the devil seam is the most difficult to seal with hot pitch or tar, because it's curved and intersected with straight deck planking. ‘Why have they given me this damned chore?' he curses, trapped here between the devil and the deep blue sea.

Several hours pass before he returns to his starboard watch.
A swabber cleans the decks ahead; Patrick walks around him and looks to the sky. He can sense a change in the weather. The wind blows most terribly, the cargo below deck tumbles and rolls.

‘The top masts will be taken down if the winds get stronger,' he says to the swabber, but the man ignores him.

Soon two seamen armed with axes scramble up deck to cut away the top mast. With each dip and roll the masts slam hard against the vessel as gigantic waves rise from a savage sea. Green hands and ordinary seamen scream and bawl, but what with the crashing waves and wind shrieking in their ears, they cannot hear a thing. The sea meanwhile rages and swells, white-capped waves foam and slap the bobbing decks. And so, as the seamen battle with the waves and the winds, bellies full with sea water, their shouts get swallowed up by a howling gale. Like a monstrous creature it steers the ships towards rocks, causing exhausted men to tremble and shake. Danger looms in the overcast sky, and so they use every last amount of strength as they court death, until the fury of the waves die down.

After the storm, the landsmen stagger around in a dazed state, most of them returning to their hammocks to sleep it off, either that or to thank God for sparing them. The other men, the more experienced ones, head off to the galley. They eat in groups of eight to twelve messes. The menu is always the same, salt beef and stale biscuits washed down with grog or beer. After a good half hour of retching up saltwater, Patrick's famished. But the mess cook is far from sober, and by the time he's finished boiling up the salt beef, it's like cutting through tree bark. In the mess hall, Patrick tries a biscuit, it's crawling with weevils. He clasps a calloused hand to his empty stomach and screws up his eyes to take a bite. In haste, he grimaces and swallows it whole, weevils and all, and then another. It's a relief when they bring water from the hold. Something to wash the biscuits down with, Patrick thinks, smacking his lips. But the water is green with algae, and he watches in fascination as the older seamen sift it through their teeth.

‘Drink the grog,' says one of the seamen.

Patrick shakes his head. ‘Don't touch the stuff.'

The seaman sits back violently in his chair, his eyebrows raised in utter bewilderment. Patrick reaches for watery rum, not wanting to look odd. It's better than green algae for sure, but he doesn't want to become reliant on it. So, he takes a wee mouth full and hopes for the best.

Outside the galley, he passes the foremast on the gun deck. Walking calms him, taking his mind off his rumbling stomach. He walks in a crisscross line to avoid the landsmen performing menial deck duties; hauling ropes, adjusting sails and cleaning decks. He just wants to get to his damp hammock, a wee sleep before the next battle stations drill. But near a scuttlebutt of water, Patrick walks straight into a commotion. A group of men surround a drunken man, sleeping off his latest rum ration, and somebody else's by the look of it.

‘Will you look at that? Someone has cut the tips of his ears off. Send for the midshipman!' one of the seamen cries.

The drunkard staggers to his feet, his tattered trews fall around his bony arse. An able seaman grabs him around the shoulders to wind a length of linen around his head, and all the while Patrick edges away. But it is too late to scarper; the midshipman arrives promptly, wearing a scowl.

‘Who did this to you?' the midshipman demands of the man. ‘And how could you sleep through that? They've shaved one of your eyebrows off. You!' He points to Patrick. ‘Stay where you are.'

‘A prank – that is all,' the man slurs. ‘No harm done. They're always playing pranks.'

The midshipman seethes with anger. ‘I will get to the bottom of this, rest assured.'

The raised voice carries across the ship, like ripples in a pond. The sound is akin to a siren, causing men to stop what they're doing and seek out the source. Ordinary and able seamen, even the elite group of top men, most of whom spend their days aloft in the tops gather together, all eyes on the drunk and his one eyebrow.

The midshipman rants and seethes, one bony finger pointing to the men. ‘If someone doesn't tell me how this man came to have the tips of his ears off, I will stop the daily ration of grog.'

A chorus of loud groans roar out from the crew.

‘I did it,' one of the grog blossoms declares.

‘Did you now? Are you sure?'

Patrick keeps his head down, not wanting any part of this calamity. It never fails to amuse him how seamen will endure a flogging rather than go without their beloved grog. The midshipman gestures to the boatswain. Patrick's mouth goes dry, he doesn't want to hang around to watch the bos'uns mate deliver a punishment; just the sight of a cat o' nine tails makes his blood turn cold. But he's trapped amongst the crew, his heart racing as the drum begins to roll. He can hardly bear to look at the grog blossom as the bos'uns mate rips the shirt from his back. And all the while the crew move closer and closer to gather around them.

The bos'uns mate curses. ‘Get back all of you, I say. I've no room to swing the cat.'

The grog blossom cowers as though regretting his admission of guilt. And then, by some miracle, just as the man swings the whip, the wind changes as the storm returns with a vengeance.

‘All hands on deck!' the first mate's fearful cry rings out. ‘Up every soul nimbly, for God's sake or we will perish.'

With the roar of the sea in his ears, Patrick watches a top man with one shoe on and one shoe off climb aloft to the foretop to take in the top sails. He's soon followed by another man and several more till they're spread across the rigging like flies caught in an intricate web. For hours the storm rages on. Patrick's knuckles turn white as he holds onto a rail to secure a rope; his face wet with wind and sea, and alive – so alive, for the sea is in his blood. Amongst the chaos he closes his eyes and prays to the Lord. His huge frame sagging over the rail as he heaves up salt water, his throat feeling like it is on fire. But when he opens his eyes there is a hope, for the sky is cloudy, and beyond the horizon is a patch of blue right in the middle.
A Dutchman's breeches, a good sign, and as the storm breaks a green hand whistles.

The bos'un shudders and screams. ‘For the love of God, will someone tell that waister to pipe down? Hasn't anyone told him it's unlucky to whistle when the wind is blowing a gale?'

***

Due to a combination of poor diet and sanitation, a number of the crew fall ill. It's to be expected really when the fish and meat are spoiled and the water is stale. Therefore, on voyages such as these many a man develops scurvy. Patrick's seen it all before, teeth falling out and the swollen tongues. Even worse, the dreaded sickness or bloody flux, that brings about a terrible lingering death. It's the tragedy of life at sea. All around them is suffering, as once hale and hearty men drop like flies. However, by some miracle Patrick remains able-bodied – but for how long?

It's not till the wee hours of the morning that Patrick slings his hammock fore and aft at his numbered peg; he's weary from manning a four-hour watch. Within his canvas is a flock mattress, and as he lies back in his damp clothes, the hammock stays quite still, while the ship rolls with it. In his hand he clutches a lock of his Maggie's hair.

‘Oh Maggie, I miss you so. I forgive you,' he whispers into the night. When he finally sleeps, he dreams of his love.

***

The corn cart rocks side to side. Maggie peeps out of it at Never-Bow Port, and takes a deep breath as they go through the south gates that lead out of Edinburgh to England. She lies back for a while and lets the motion of the cart lull her to sleep, and her dreams are of Newcastle and all manner of lavishness, comfort and delight. But as the cart jolts and rocks, all that greets her is the smell of manure, heather and gorse. Near a great river the horse slips in some mud, and thus the rickety corn cart comes to a halt. The driver leaps from the cart, for the moment unaware of the sleeping person along for the ride. The horse is his main priority and so he makes sure that she's fine. And then he remembers the girl.

‘Wake up, lassie. I'm not going any further. It's time to get out.'

‘Are we in Newcastle?' Maggie rubs the sleep from her eyes.

‘No. This is Kelso.'

‘Kelso?'

‘Aye, Kelso. If it is England you want you'd better find another cart.'

‘But where?'

‘Not my problem, lassie,' he says and walks away.

***

Snowflakes fly into Maggie's eyes like burning sparks, her ears are frozen solid. She tries to ignore the cold, but as the ice crystals crunch beneath her feet, she can hardly feel her toes. The wind presses against her face, pulling and tearing at her so that her eyes and nose smart. She pauses by the water edge, through watery eyes she can just make out a market town. An old fisherman tips his hat as she passes by. It's nearing dark, and Maggie doesn't want to spend it out of doors – so she calls out to him.

‘Can you tell me how to get to the town across the river?'

‘That's no town, lassie. That's Maxwellheugh, a small village. There be no bridge to it though. But there be a good ford that way.' He glances at her shoes. ‘How good are your boots?'

‘Well, they've seen better days. But a bit of cold water never hurt anyone.'

The old man shivers. ‘Don't get your feet wet in this weather, lass, unless you can help it. You'll catch yourself the death of cold.'

Maggie turns and walks in the direction he points. The ford is not a good one. But she has no choice, she must reach the village. So, she straightens her feet and holds both arms out at her side at shoulder height. Across the rocks she balances, one foot at a time. Her progress is slow, and then she wobbles as a stone crumbles beneath her. It's a shock when she hits the water. The temperature is ice-cold, and it is as though a thousand needles are plunging into her feet. To make matters worse, a sharp stone tears through her heel, but she walks on, ignoring the pain. At the river's edge she pours out the water from her boots and winces as she places them back onto her feet. In a daze she approaches the town, her body crying out for warmth as her feet shuffle through a blanket of white snow.

A small cluster of dwellings loom ahead. Only one of them brightly lit. Maggie's breath billows out like white clouds as she stumbles towards it. Was there ever a more welcome sight? The door's heavy, she hasn't the vigour to push it open. She collapses against it and almost falls to the floor, and then to her relief someone opens the door.

‘Sorry miss,' a fat man passes by, tipping his hat.

Maggie enters the tavern, unsteady on her feet, her whole person sprinkled in snow. A tall fair-haired woman approaches her with a puzzled expression, but Maggie's passed caring, all she wants is to warm herself by a blazing fire.

‘For the love of God, what are you doing out on a night like this? You look chilled to the bone, child. Come – sit down and warm yourself by the fire. My name's Isobel Lidgerwood, I'm the wife of the innkeeper.'