The Highwayman's Curse (9 page)

O
nce we had taken the few possessions from the hut, we made our way back in near silence.

On our way, a strange incident occurred. We were trotting gently along the track towards the road. A curlew flew up with a cry from some reeds in the wet ground some yards away, followed by its mate. I was riding a little ahead of the others and it was a few moments before I realized that Calum had ridden his pony off the track and was galloping towards the reeds. I watched him search for something on the ground, his pony's feet sinking into the thick, sticky marsh. He seemed to find what he was looking for, and with a cry of pleasure, he made his pony move on the same spot, kicking and hauling on the reins at the same time, so that the pony did not know which way to go and only stamped and jibbed. After a few moments of this, he rode back to us, satisfaction on his face.

Bess and I looked to him in puzzlement. “A curlew's nest. I destroyed it.”

“Why?”

“Because curlews are no' loved by God.”

“But why?” I repeated.

“They betrayed the hiding-places o' the Covenanters. When they tried to worship God in their Conventicles. Their secret places o' worship. In my great-grandmother's time. My own ancestors,” he said, with some aggression.

“But they are birds! They know nothing!”

He looked flustered “We have always done it.” His voice was lame. He turned away.

We rode on, in silence again. I remembered how one of the men had shot the curlew when we had been riding to the farm on that very first occasion. It had seemed like a sport at the time. Did their anger go so deep?

As we reached the yard, Calum held out a hand to help Bess dismount. She did not need such help, and yet she took it.

Hamish's pony and cart still stood by the water trough. Mouldy sat on a stool at the door, tying metal hooks onto fishing-lines, a net in a heap by his side, and a lobster pot or somesuch. He nodded to us as we approached. Inside, the minister sat in the best chair, by the fire, shoulders stooped and all in black. His eyes, I now saw, were lacy-white and wide. And yet, they did not seem empty. They seemed to see, and yet I knew they could not.

A long wooden box, a coffin, sat on the ground. The body of the old man lay inside it, wrapped round with a clean cloth which showed the contours of his bony face. But the coffin was nearly full with something else, too: the bottles of whisky and bags of salt that we had brought from the cave the night before were stacked around the corpse, pushed into every crevice, distorting its shape. Red was standing inside the entrance to the underground passage, halfway up the ladder, only his head and massive shoulders visible. He was passing packages up to Hamish, who was stacking them inside the coffin. Another man was below Red, handing them to him.

Old Maggie was asleep on the box-bed, her face soft and peaceful now, her damaged cheek hidden from view. Tam was lying beside her, and his eyes lit up when he saw me and Bess. I smiled briefly at him, because I felt sorry for him, but I did not go to him. I did not wish him to form an affection for me.

That coffin was heavy. I know because I helped carry it to Hamish's cart, where we secured it and covered it with a black cloth. Hamish helped the blind minister onto the cart. Not a word did the man say, he simply sat, hunched, his fingers clutching the sides of his cloak round him, his white eyes wandering. Did he know what was stuffed in the coffin with the corpse? Perhaps he did not. Perhaps he did.

They rode out of the yard. Those left behind looked at each other.

“We'll keep careful watch tonight,” said Jock. “Murdoch's men will be angry again.”

“Why?” asked Calum.

Jock paused. “We will no' pay the cut.”

Calum's shock was clear. “But we agreed! We decided! To stop them taking Iona and to make peace!”

“Peace!” said Red, with a snort. “Ye ken nothing, lad. We'll no' make peace by doing what they want. They'll take more and more until we've nothing left at all!”

Jock spoke now. “Red is right: if we always pay, they will ask for more. We'll no' pay taxes to the King so why should we pay Douglas Murdoch and his men?”

“But they will take Iona!” cried Calum.

Thomas shot his son a furious look. “Dinna argue wi' us. 'Tis for grown men to judge.” Calum looked at the ground and Thomas turned away now, as though he cared nothing what his son might think. Calum said nothing more.

“Aye, they may try to take Iona,” said Red, “but they dinna ken that there are two more o' us now, and good horses, and pistols. Now is the time to strike. We can surprise them when they come, teach them a lesson they'll no' forget. They took our sheep; they murdered our kin. They will pay. We are agreed.” Jock, Thomas and Red, all had faces set firm.

Calum nodded now, as though he had been swayed entirely by their words and would do everything they said. He had nothing more to say, only, “Aye. They should pay.”

I did not like this. I did not like it at all. This was not our battle. I could not say where it would end but it seemed to me no good could come of it.

But I did not say so. Another thought came to me. “But they do not know you have a cargo from last night. So they will not know you have not paid.”

Thomas shook his head. “They'll ken. And they will come for their share. Perhaps no' today. Or tomorrow. But news will reach them that a cargo was run at our cave – these things are no secret. Even the excisemen sometimes ken – and we give 'em their share to keep them quiet. When Douglas Murdoch finds the truth, then will he come. And we will be ready.”

I tried now to sound the voice of reason. “But when will it ever stop? If you hurt them, will they not come back in greater numbers, for revenge? Will it not simply continue. For ever? Or until you are all dead?”

“Or until they are all dead!” retorted Red.

Jock passed a hand across his forehead. He seemed to stumble a little. Red took his arm. “Ye should sit,” he said, casting a glance at Thomas, who turned away. Jock shook his son off.

“Dinna fuss o'er me!” he said. But he went slowly into the dwelling nevertheless, followed by the rest of us. And he did sit down. His face was the ashen hue of a weak sky. His body seemed a little slumped, his back no longer straight and strong.

He reminded me of my father's hounds: when the pack leader weakened and aged, it would try to keep the appearance of strength. It would snarl more, pace about in front of his followers, its hackles rising more often. A pack leader must seem strong, or the successors will move in.

Now the conversation seemed to be over. Jeannie called me and Bess to see the dwelling she had made ready for us to share with the old woman. Iona was there, her cheeks pink with effort. They had washed the blankets, for which I was much relieved, and now they flapped wildly on a rope strung outside. A fire crackled in the hearth and a large pan hung from the crook handle, steam rolling from it. The table was scrubbed clean, and on a platter was bread. Stools were ranged around.

On the fire sizzled several fish, hissing and spitting, sending a delicious smell around the room. “Mouldy caught them for ye,” explained Jeannie. “He likes nothing better than to spend his days watching fish bite.”

Something else lay on the table: our pistols. The bags of shot and powder were beside them. Our swords I saw leaning against the wall.

It seemed that we were expected to stay. I looked to Bess, and saw the pleasure on her face.

Iona was speaking. Her cheeks were pinked and her eyes shone as she took the pan off the heat and poured the steaming water into a large bowl. “I thought ye might like to wash. In warm water,” she added proudly.

She was right. But I wished to do so without her there, watching me. Now Jeannie added her voice, looking at me first. “We have found some clothes – Calum's will fit ye.” Now she turned to Bess. “Ye are taller than Iona so I have set Old Maggie to make a skirt from one o' mine, but she's no' quite finished. For a bodice, I think Iona's will fit.”

“Thank you. You are very kind.” And Bess took the garments which Iona now held out to her.

They all looked at me. Of course, I was to leave. At one end of the room, a strip of coarse material hung from a beam, all the way to the ground. I could have gone behind this, but I did not wish to listen to their women's chatter.

Somewhat irritated, I left. I wanted to talk to Bess, to see what she thought. Surely she did not wish to stay? I knew her to be unpredictable, sometimes impulsive, and that she was different from me, but what was there to keep her here?

As I walked from the door and across the yard to the stable, I could hear their feminine laughter.

Where did I belong? Not here, I was sure, not among these people. And yet, not among my own either. Frustration grew in me, a feeling of being caught in a small and airless place.

I
t seemed I would not have a chance to speak properly to Bess that evening either. We all ate together: steaming crab, the sweet, chewy flesh ripped from inside the claws with our teeth; some salty cabbage, which I thought not so pleasant; along with a dark bread, which was nourishing and malty, and oozed with soft butter.

After we had eaten, Bess began to talk once more to Old Maggie, who gave answers which sometimes seemed to make sense and at other times not. Every now and then, Bess touched her arm, and once she smoothed the hair on the old woman's forehead.

I moved away.

Thomas called me to sit with the men, and this I did. But I had to fend off their questions. They wanted to know more than I had told them the night before. I had told them that Bess and I lived as robbers of the highway, but not how we had met. Nor did I tell them this now – I did not wish them to know that Bess had almost killed me and that all I had learned about survival had come from her. Nor did I wish to tell them about my wealthy family, though from their questions I think it must have been obvious. I suppose my accent gave me away. I told them that I would not go home, could not, and that my home was far away. It was all they needed to know.

They did ask me a little about my church. I knew not what the right answers were and so I said simply that I knew my Bible and always put my trust in God. They appeared very satisfied with this. I had already seen Iona copying lines from the huge black Bible – kept on the chest which covered the underground passageway – and I had seen Jock sometimes touch it as he passed, as if for reassurance.

And so they seemed to overlook my educated voice, and my Englishness. I suppose that that did not offend them over much, since they were of Hanoverian persuasion, and hated the Jacobite Highlanders more than they did the English. I think they neither liked nor hated me for my roots. I was not, at least, what they hated most: soldier, Catholic, or reiver.

Besides, I believe they so strongly wished that Bess and I should lend our strength and numbers to them that they minded little where I was from. They knew we were on the wrong side of the law, and the right side of God, and that was enough for them. They knew now that we had rescued Tam, and that I had saved his arm. That, too, made us their friends.

Jock appeared to have recovered from whatever had made him ill earlier, though he ate little and breathed somewhat heavily.

They drank no whisky at that time. Just some ale which, from its watery taste, I think had little potency. Red stood leaning against the wall, carrying in one hand a stout wooden club with pieces of metal sticking out from one end. He repeatedly hit the palm of his other hand with its stem. I think he looked forward to any fighting that might occur. Mouldy and Billy took turns to stay outside and watch the track for anyone coming.

Then Thomas took something from where it hung high on a wall. I had not noticed it before. It was a violin. As he took it in his left hand, his rough fingers curling easily round the strings, I thought of Bess and how she had used to play the cittern. Until it had been burnt along with everything in her cottage.

When he began quietly to pluck the strings and to turn the tuning pegs, I saw Bess twist quickly to see. Her eyes lit up, and the more so as Thomas took the bow and began to play a tune, one which was mournful and yet, at the same time, quick and full of life.

“May I try?” she asked, when he had finished. Jeannie and the men looked at her. Only Iona and the old woman did not. Iona was stitching something and she did not stop now. Old Maggie did not notice, I think. She was away in her own mind.

“My father taught me to play the fiddle,” Bess said, taking the instrument and letting it settle comfortably under her chin. “I have not played for many a year. I know not if…” She fingered the strings a little, getting the measure of them. She took the bow in her other hand, her fingers curling round, finding their place, and then she hesitantly drew it across the strings, moving the fingers of her other hand as she did so. And a passable tune came from the fiddle, a tune which grew in confidence as she found its voice.

After a few lines of the tune, while everyone in the room looked at her, she lowered the fiddle, and passed it back to Thomas, who smiled and then, imperfectly at first and then with more confidence, began to play her tune as though he already knew it, which I think he did not. Now, a little shyly in this company, Bess began to sing some words. Very soon, I saw that these were her own words, new words. She must have worked them in her head since hearing Old Maggie's story, because that was the story her song told.

When she was not robbing rich travellers on the highroads, Bess was a ballad seller. She created songs, telling the tales of events and lives. She had written a ballad about Henry Parish's death and we had made copies of it and passed them to everyone we met in Henry's town. We had taken no money for this ballad, wanting only that the world should know of the horror and injustice of his passing.

My Grammar school education and my tutors had taught me that the ballad seller's craft is inferior to the great poems of the classics. But as soon as I had heard one of Bess's ballads for the first time, I had felt the great power of its music and poetry. She could turn a man's life or death into words that touched the heart and mind and a listener would not be the same after hearing them. And this she did now, while I watched her, and watched the faces of those around us as she told of the death of Old Maggie's mother.

I remember only snatches of her verses. She sang of the white dress, the child's tears, the cold spume of the sea relentlessly rising. But I remember well the refrain, a refrain that settled in my head and came to me again over the coming days.

Old Maggie sat with her arms folded round her, hugging herself, shaking her head softly as a tear fell along the cracks in her face. And when Bess had finished, and everyone clapped and slapped their thighs in admiration, Old Maggie beckoned her over and took her hands in hers.

In a quavery voice, but clear, she said, “I am glad ye have come, child. Ye bring new blood tae us. We need new blood. Tae start again. Ye will produce guid sons, strong sons. No lassies. The lassies are curst.”

Iona turned her shoulders away but I saw her lips tighten and twist. I could not blame her.

Bess laughed. She tossed her black hair back. It was clean now, and shining from much time spent combing it earlier that day. It fell in spirals about her neck. The locket glinted in the hollow below her throat. Her bodice – Iona's – was a little tight, nipping her waist; the skirt was the new one that Old Maggie had stitched that very afternoon, coarse and heavy, of cheap material. I could see Calum watching her, without speaking, just watching her. His face was slightly pink, but this was perhaps the firelight and the warmth.

“I have no plans for babies, Maggie!” said Bess, squeezing the old woman's hands. “Will and I are not…”

“No,” said Old Maggie. “No, foolish lass. I talk o' Calum. Calum should be married soon and ye are a pretty thing. And Calum's fair o' face hisself, is he no'?”

A snort of derision came from Red, still leaning against the wall. He muttered something, but I know not what. Thomas rose to his feet, pushing his stool back with a clatter. “Well, ye'll no' have her and that's for sure!” and he stood before Red, pushing his chest out. They were of the same height, and as broad. Their faces were inches from each other, their eyes blazing, their lips apart.

“And who's to stop me?”

“I am.” It was Bess – standing tall herself, fury on her face. She dared put her hands out and pull the two men apart, before Jock, too, intervened and settled his sons down. “I am not yours for the choosing,” she said, coolly.

Red smiled, his large frame relaxing against the wall again. “Dinna be afeard, lass! I'd no' dare! Ye're o'er strong for me!” At which she, too, smiled.

At first, I was pleased that she said she was not theirs for the choosing. I thought she was choosing neither Red nor Calum. But then I understood: she was looking only at Red. She did not address her remarks to Calum. I looked at him more closely now. And although I did not think him to be fair of face, with his sullen expression, his hair over his eyebrows and his mouth overlarge, yet what did I know of a girl's preferences? Had she not seemed to be easy in his presence? Could it happen that Calum would turn her heart?

If he did, surely she would not choose to stay here with him? But why not? And would I mind? I had no feelings of that sort for Bess, had I? And yet we were together, she and I. We had faced death together. Calum could not say that.

I knew Bess's story and she mine. She knew of the corruption of my father and I had heard of the tragic death of hers. She had let me watch her as she threw crocuses into a waterfall to remember her parents' murders at the hands of the redcoats. I had seen her sadness. And her fury. She had witnessed my shame when my father had hanged an innocent man. Together we had watched Henry Parish shot dead and we had picked crocuses for him too.

Calum could never mean anything to her. I would not believe it.