Joseph Knight

by James Robertson

  He saw himself in a strange building, a cross between a Persian palace and a luxurious Scottish tavern hung with crimson drapes, with tables groaning under vast amounts of food and drink. Fat, cheerful lawyers and merchants reclined on plump cushions, helping themselves to whatever they fancied. Maclaurin was in the midst of an argument, not with Bozzy or Crosbie or even Cullen but with a roaring oaf who had a dishcloot hanging from his waistband, some ignoramus drunk on wine and patriotism. The oaf was deaving him with the kind of sentiments many Scots found hard to resist: ‘Aye, sir, we’ve aye been hot for liberty. We focht for it against the English wi Wallace and Bruce, and we’ll fecht for it against the French. It’s in oor banes, it’s in oor banes. Of course we’ll fecht for the freedom o the Negroes, sir. We’re Scotsmen. It’s in oor banes.’

  But Maclaurin, in his dream-world tavern, did not scuttle for safety but roared back into the oaf’s face, ‘Ye’ve drunk yoursel hauf blin, man! Ye see the past but ye dinna see the present. It’s Scots that run the plantations, and if ye dinna believe me read Mr Long’s book on Jamaica.’ (Mr Long, seated in a corner, a yellowish, sneering man with a black beard, raised a glass to him on hearing his work cited.) ‘The place is rife wi us. Look at the names, ye blin beggar, and tell me I’m a liar.’ He whipped the cloot from its place and began to thrash the drunkard about the face with it, a blow for every name: ‘Wedderburns!’ Skelp! ‘Wallaces!’ Skelp! ‘Aye, Wallaces!’ Skelp! ‘Kerrs!’ Skelp! ‘Campbells!’ Skelp! ‘MacLeans!’ Skelp! ‘Gordons! Gillespies! Grants!’ Skelp! Skelp! Skelp! ‘Robertsons! Rosses! Ritchies! – Jamaica reads like an Edinburgh kirkyaird! And the plantations are a map o Scotland – Glasgow!’ Skelp! ‘Haddo!’ Skelp! ‘Fort William! Braco! New Galloway! Newmiln! Strathbogie! Drummond!’ Skelp! Skelp! Skelp! The oaf was now a cowering, wincing jelly before Maclaurin’s righteous anger. Mr Long was clapping, slowly and sarcastically. The other men in the place continued to stuff themselves. ‘The truth is, we’re swimmin up tae oor mooths in the bluid o Africans, but when we tak some in the sugar has sae sweetened the taste that it disna scunner us.’ He flung the cloot and the last dregs of the man’s glass in his face. ‘If ye’re a true Scotsman, sir, ye wouldna be proud. Ye would be ashamed!’

  He woke with a start, and saw Esther, who was pregnant again, sitting in a chair by the bedroom window. He sat up. ‘Are ye no weel?’

  ‘No, John, I’m fine. Jist a wee bittie uncomfortable. I came through tae speak tae ye but ye were asleep. And then ye started thrashin aboot like a horse wi a colic, and I thocht I should stay in case ye were ill. I thocht ye said ye wouldna drink much tonight.’

  ‘I didna. Dinna catch a chill there, my dear.’

  She had the window open a few inches. ‘It is swelterin, John. I’ll no catch a chill. Go back tae sleep.’

  He lay back down, pulled up the covers, drifted off again. He knew now that the drunken oaf was not real, and yet was. Courteous Cullen, who in addition to mimicry had made something of a speciality of the study of dreams, would have a field day with his. He had of course no intention of telling him about it. He understood that in his dream he was, in some way, apologising for the failings of the past. But to whom?

  Dundee and Ballindean, October 1802

  Something had been nagging at the back of Archibald Jamieson’s mind for weeks, and it was not the familiar girns of the new Mrs Jamieson. In fact, the new Mrs Jamieson had been remarkably quiet since the end of summer: her complaints about the boys had dwindled to sighs, her rare appearances at the dinner table were peaceful. Some days she did not get out of bed at all. This, at first mildly pleasing to Archibald, had become increasingly disturbing, causing him to wonder, guiltily, if her health was in a worse state than he had supposed. But the doctor had been unable to diagnose anything specific, and Janet Jamieson had absolutely refused to be bled ‘jist for the sake o fillin a bowlie’. In this, Archibald had a certain amount of sympathy with her. Last week, however, her obduracy had given the doctor the opportunity to shrug and say that he could not help her if she did not trust him. Mrs Jamieson had replied that indeed she did not trust him, as she knew of several people whose moderate illnesses had developed, following the attendance of their physicians, into full-blown crises rapidly succeeded by death, and that she could not help but feel that these events were connected. The doctor had stalked out in a rage. After he was gone, Archibald Jamieson had sat on the end of his wife’s bed and asked whether she wished another doctor to be called. ‘They are aw the same, Archie,’ she had told him placidly. ‘I think I prefer tae decline withoot their assistance.’

  The item ticking away in Jamieson’s thoughts was one he had not discussed with Janet. This in itself was nothing unusual. As far as he could tell, she had neither curiosity nor care about his work. She did not in fact seem much interested in anything that went on beyond the walls of the house: he had learnt not to bother her with news of the town, the world and their ongoings. But he had not mentioned this particular subject partly because he believed she would be interested in it and, because it involved a young woman, that she would draw a number of hasty and ill-judged conclusions.

  He was worried about Miss Susan Wedderburn. There had been no contact between them since June, when he had decided that she was both naïve and manipulative, intelligent but also rather silly. Yet she kept interrupting his thoughts. He doubted that Aeneas MacRoy would have betrayed her to her father, but strangely the idea that this might have happened made him tingle with excitement. Sometimes he found himself imagining just that scenario, and the confrontations he, Archibald Jamieson, her protector, would have to have – first with MacRoy, then, in that Ballindean library, with Wedderburn. Working out in his head why he should feel like this was easy: he was connected to her by Alexander Wedderburn’s journal.

  He still had it, and would bring it out once in a while not to read but to inhale the scent of its linen wrap. He should return it, enable her to put it back where she had found it (assuming it had not been missed). A discreet replacement, a restoration of the former order of things. He needed to persuade her to do this so that he could get her out of his head.

  Jamieson had been in his line of work long enough to know how easily, and how often, apparently settled middle-aged men could get into awkward scrapes by letting their imaginations or their instincts run away with them when a second party of the young and female kind entered into proceedings. So, he could stand outside himself and wag a warning finger. He would not be so foolish as to embarrass or compromise either of them. Yet he longed to see her. Why? Surely he was not in love. Ridiculous thought! – the worm of desire that periodically uncurled in him was satisfied in Pirie’s Land. With Susan, he told himself, his intentions were strictly honourable: he wanted to make sure that she did nothing irredeemably foolish. And he wanted to tell her what Davidson had said about Joseph Knight.

  The journal was the object around which he built his plans. Wrapped in its protective cloth, it nestled against his chest as, one slack October morning, one sunny day with a light westerly blowing leaves in his face, he rode off along the Perth road on the same hired horse as before.

  He reached the village of Inchture about eleven, turned the horse in at a dwelling, slightly larger than the others, that served as a very simple inn, and strolled around the scattering of cottages. The place seemed run down for the principal staging post between Dundee and Perth. This state of disrepair was largely because Lord Kinnaird, who owned it, had plans to knock it all down and construct a model village on the site. Such ‘improvement’ was something of a fashion among landowners.

  Jamieson did not suppose that the inhabitants had any say in how, or whether, their homes were to be improved. From a casual inspection, though, they could not get much worse. The remnant of an old castle, the manse, the kirk and the schoolhouse were the only buildings of any real substance. He stopped to admire the manse, a fine if ramshackle pile covered in ivy and standing behind the graveyard wall. He noticed a rodden tree, b
arrier to witches, growing at the gate, its autumn foliage flame-orange and lit with smouldering clusters of red berries. He wondered if God was offended by this extra layer of protection against evil, or if He even cared.

  Joseph Knight, Davidson had said, had been made a Christian by some local minister. Was it here he had come for instruction? Jamieson was tempted to chap the door and ask to see the current incumbent, a Mr Davie, but there was no point. Davie, a middle-aged bachelor, had only been there a couple of years. The previous minister had died in 1799, but it would probably have been his predecessor, or even the one before that, who would have had any dealings with Knight. And even if Davie did know anything, why would he tell it to a strange man who came unannounced to ask questions? More likely he would go straight to Ballindean, where it would not take Wedderburn, or MacRoy, long to work out who the stranger was.

  Jamieson walked back to the ‘inn’, passing through a small group of brown-faced, barefoot children loitering by the road in anticipation of the Dundee coach. He had considered coming out on the coach and catching the afternoon one back, but the times were not reliable, and he did not know how long he might need. He cast a few sharp glances at the older boys and, observing what looks were returned, went inside.

  He found himself in what was really the enlarged front room of a cottage. He settled himself near the unlit fire, the only customer, and the woman of the house brought him a tankard of ale. Jamieson waited.

  Before he was halfway through the tankard a scrawny, blackeyed lad of ten or eleven sidled in to stand a few feet away. Jamieson was pleased with himself. It was the one he wanted, the eager hireling, the one who understood. He could have put a bet on it.

  ‘There’s a penny here for ye,’ he said, tapping the coin on the table, ‘if ye are tae be trusted? Are ye?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘D’ye belang this hoose?’

  ‘Na.’

  ‘Whit’s your name?’

  ‘Neil Murray.’

  ‘Come closer, Neil Murray.’ The boy approached till they were almost touching. Jamieson dropped his voice. There was no sign of the woman, but he was not taking any chances.

  ‘D’ye ken the big hoose, lad?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘How d’ye ken which ane I mean? Drimmie or Ballindean?’

  ‘I ken them baith, so ye can mean either.’

  ‘Ye dinna stand much on ceremony, eh, Neil? Never mind. Ballindean is closer, is it no?’

  ‘Aye. A mile awa, nae mair. Drimmie’s twa.’

  ‘Wha bides at Drimmie?’

  ‘The muckle laird’s folk. The Kinnairds.’

  ‘Weel, ye seem wise enough. Let’s see how fast ye are. Can ye rin tae Ballindean and back?’ Neil Murray nodded. ‘Dae ye ken the folk there? The great folk, I mean?’

  ‘Aye, Sir John and that.’

  ‘D’ye ken the dochters, the Miss Wedderburns?’

  ‘Aye. Five o them.’

  ‘But can ye tell them apairt?’

  ‘The auld ane’s Margaret. The wee ane’s Anne. The bonnie ane’s Louisa.’

  ‘It’s nane o them I mean. I want ye tae tak a message tae Miss Susan. D’ye ken her?’

  ‘She’s the dark-haired ane o the ither twa.’

  ‘Guid lad.’

  Jamieson reached inside his coat, felt for the folded, sealed note behind the journal, pulled it out. It had nothing written on the outside.

  ‘Ye’ve tae find a wey tae gie this tae her. Tae naebody else, mind. No tae a sister nor a servant nor onybody. Only tae her.’

  ‘Whit if she’s no there?’

  ‘Bring it back. How will ye find her?’

  ‘My cousin’s a hoosemaid. She’ll ken.’

  ‘Dinna gie it tae your cousin. Dinna show it tae her. Tell her there’s a penny for her as weel if she speirs nae questions but gets ye tae Susan Wedderburn. Gie Miss Wedderburn this paper when she’s alane and wait till she opens it. Then tell her a man at Inchture sent ye.’

  Most idiot bairns would have wanted to know what name to give. Neil Murray was quite a find: he only asked, ‘Whit’ll she say?’

  ‘Naething, I hope, but that she’s coming here. But if she canna, she may gie ye a message back. Speak tae naebody else and there’s twa pennies in it, ane for you and ane for your cousin.’

  ‘How lang will ye wait?’

  ‘I’m in nae hurry.’

  ‘There’s mair nor twa pennies’ work in this.’

  Jamieson scowled, really in order to hide his delight. He saw the quick mind working behind Neil Murray’s dark eyes. Already the boy was thinking of how not to involve his cousin, how to get both coins for himself. This was highly commendable. ‘Dae it weel, and there will be,’ said Jamieson, and Neil, apparently satisfied with this half-promise, slipped out of the door.

  The coach bound for Perth arrived and a couple of passengers got out to stretch their legs. Jamieson watched through the window as the Inchture bairns gathered round as if they had never seen a coach or strangers before in their lives. He ordered a slice of mutton pie to soak up his ale. The coach departed again. Jamieson ate, settled up, then wandered back outside.

  The children paid him no attention. The broad dusty street was splashed with sunlight dripping through some fine old oak trees. Dead leaves lay in drifts against a dyke on one side of the road. Doubtless the trees themselves would not survive the rebuilding of the village. It was something of a surprise that they had stood even till now, since there seemed to be a mania – at least the would-be gypsy in Jamieson thought it so – for cutting down the biggest and best trees in the land.

  Nearly an hour had passed since Neil had left. Jamieson’s sense of anticipation overcame his patience. He returned to the inn, reclaimed his horse, and rode slowly in the direction of Ballindean. He passed a few poor but clean-looking cottages. A man working in one of the gardens exchanged the time of day. The open gates of Ballindean appeared on the right. Jamieson remembered the long curving avenue that led up to the house. The boy came trotting out of the thick woods and through the gates.

  ‘Aye, Neil?’

  ‘She’s coming. On her ain horse,’ Neil said. He did not seem in the least excited by his news.

  ‘Jist hersel?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Wait here for her. Tell her no tae gang tae Inchture. This way.’ He pointed ahead, a track leading into the hills behind Ballindean. ‘Ye understand?’

  ‘That’s anither penny.’

  Jamieson laughed. He saw that Neil had him in his power now. He had probably spent the last hour calculating what the man from Dundee’s secret manoeuvres might be worth. Jamieson flicked him two coins, one after the other in a spinning arc, then a third, and a huge smile appeared on the boy’s face. A captain of commerce in the making. Jamieson kicked his horse into a trot as Neil hunkered down by one of the stone gateposts to complete his errand.

  After a few hundred yards the track turned to the west and seemed to be heading towards another collection of cottages. This was the old Perth road, now superseded by the turnpike. On his right a broken-down dyke separated the track from woods which formed part of the policies of Ballindean. It suddenly occurred to Jamieson that he was riding very close to danger – not physical danger, but risk of his rather clumsily arranged liaison with Susan being discovered. No great calamity for him, but it could be for her.

  That word ‘liaison’ rather surprised him. It popped into his head and sent a small thrill through him, one he immediately mocked. Then he thought – and this was part of the rising tide of excitement in him – that there might really be some threat to his safety. What if Susan Wedderburn, outraged at his forwardness, was setting a trap, coming to meet him while her brother and Aeneas MacRoy were outflanking him armed with horsewhips and cudgels? But no, if she was coming it was in response to two words and four letters on a single sheet of paper, which her own previous actions would have prevented her from disclosing to anyone else: ‘I HAVE JK. AJ.’ He was intrigued to disco
ver how she had interpreted this; if she would be angry when she found he had played her own trick back on her.

  He dismounted, guided the horse through a gap in the dyke, and waited among the trees.

  Presently he heard hooves approaching at a smart trot. One horse, and Susan Wedderburn on it. As she drew level he whistled. She turned her head, saw him, lifted her hand in acknowledgment and pointing forward continued on her way. He emerged from the trees and saw that she had left the track where it turned to the west, and had taken a very narrow and overgrown path due north that he would otherwise have missed. He mounted up and followed.

  After a short steep climb, the vegetation thinned again and the path opened out on to a hillside scattered with birch scrub. Here, resting her horse by a large boulder, Susan Wedderburn was waiting.

  ‘I am much obliged tae ye, miss,’ Jamieson said, coming up to her. ‘I didna ken if this would be possible. I was concerned for ye.’

  ‘I am pleased to see you,’ she said. ‘And I thank you for your concern.’

  He was immediately struck by the sombre tone of her voice. She seemed more formal than before; gracefulness banishing gaucheness almost entirely. It was as if she had left childhood quite behind her in the intervening months.

  ‘This winna cause ye trouble?’

  ‘No. Neil Murray is very discreet.’

  ‘Ye ken him?’

  ‘I ken most of the Inchture bairns. Anyway, there is more than enough occupying the hearts and minds of Ballindean at present for anyone to notice whether I choose to go out riding or not.’

  Again, he sensed a change: a note of pride; bitterness even?

  ‘I misled ye, perhaps,’ he said, ‘wi the note.’

  ‘Not at all. I understood it perfectly. I had no illusions that you had hidden Mr Knight behind a tree for me.’