Highland Justice

by Larry Stuart

  HIGHLAND JUSTICE

  LARRY STUART

  Highland Justice

  By Larry Stuart

  http://www.larrystuartbooks.com

  Copyright Notice

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or shared using any form of technology available now or invented in the future. This book may not be printed or shared in any way without the permission of the publisher. This book is sold subject to conditions that lending or sharing in any form is not allowed. This book may not be reproduced in any part, shared, distributed or copied without the permission of the publisher.

  Copyright 2011 Larry Stuart

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  There are so many to thank:

  First and foremost, my family, who, with good grace, endured my flights of fantasy and tested the umpteenth “last” draft

  Along the way, one or two have provided encouragement, just when it was needed. To them goes my gratitude, and assurance that I will protect their anonymity – until at least the millionth book has been sold!

  And finally, I extend my appreciation to the hundreds of authors who, throughout my life, have drawn me into their journeys, and inspired me to set out on my own

  AUTHOR’S NOTE:

  For the purposes of continuity, a few of the historical events in this novel have been taken slightly out of time frame. To those of you who detect these inaccuracies, I do apologize, and hope it does not detract from your enjoyment of the novel

  OATS: ‘A grain, which in England is generally given to horses, but in Scotland supports the people.’

  Samuel Johnson 1755

  BOSWELL: ‘I do indeed come from Scotland, but I cannot help it…’

  JOHNSON: ‘That, Sir, I find, is what a very great many of your countrymen cannot help.’

  James Boswell ‘Life of Samuel Johnson’ 1763

  CHAPTER ONE

  The door rattled in its frame, its decrepit wooden panelling cracking as it strained to withstand the pummelling. A cloud of dust and particles of rotted timber spread into the room; the noise and confusion almost overwhelming a young boy as he was driven from his slumber.

  Cameron sat bolt upright, his eyes unwillingly open. Disorientated, he frantically searched his shadowy surroundings, but in the dreary light of daybreak, ill-defined shapes were all that were present.

  ‘Morris Stewart! This be the police…open the door!’

  The booming voice completed Cameron’s rude arousal.

  ‘Father…Father. Wake up!’ cried out his panicky voice, his eyes desperately peering into the darkness on the far side of the room.

  ‘Come on, Stewart! We know you be there!’

  The loud hammering continued, and as there was no acknowledgement from his father Cameron accepted that it was left to him to get to the door.

  His bed had been placed in a rear corner of the old crofter’s cottage – at the opposite end from where a door led to his father’s room. So, swinging his legs out from under his blanket, he got to his feet and slowly shuffled across the cold wooden floor, his hands groping for the edge of the table that he knew stood between himself and the cottage’s entrance. Suddenly, he stumbled into something soft. He didn’t need to look to know it was his father’s comatose body lying at his feet, reeking of alcohol and rotten fish. With barely a hesitation, he stepped over the human obstacle and worked his way past the table and towards the front door.

  The thin light of dawn outlined two huge shapes, and as they entered with their batons drawn Cameron recoiled, cowering behind the door.

  The unmistakeable form of Sergeant Boyd was first through the entrance; and although Cameron had grinned when he’d overheard the older lads in town making fun of the sergeant’s chinless face, large stomach and even larger behind, in his current situation the policeman seemed a frightening colossus.

  Following him in was a fairly new addition to Banffshire’s Victorian police force, and despite the fact that he was of much smaller stature – and had a clean shaven and almost kindly face – from a ten year olds perspective he was still an intimidating figure of authority.

  ‘Och! What a stink! Where is he then?’

  Cameron crawled forwards, peering up from around the edge of the door at the two daunting figures – for the moment stationary, as their eyes adjusted to the gloomy interior.

  ‘There he be Sergeant…there…in front of that table.’

  ‘Aye…an what a fine lookin’ specimen of Highland stock,’ sneered the sergeant. ‘He dinna look like he’s changed his clothes since Ah last saw him scuttlin’ through the trees by Conval woods.’

  The two policemen inched their way forwards in the wedge of light provided by the open doorway.

  ‘Look at the state of that. Ah reckon even a common snipe wud no wish to nest in that mess on his heid! What an example he’s settin’ for his wee bairn. No doubt in a few years time we’ll be doon here doin’ the same thing ag’in…only this time it’ll be the lad we’re arrestin’. Come on then, Constable…Let’s get him ootside. Ah expect he’ll sober up soon enough when he sees where he’ll be spendin’ his time waitin’ for the Magistrate.’

  Both men pocketed their truncheons – it being obvious that the only danger from this criminal was the possibility of him staining their uniforms with vomit as they dragged him from the shack. Then, each grabbing an arm, they hauled the inert form across the floor and out through the open doorway.

  Cameron’s teeth chattered from fear as well as the cold, so as soon as the duo had left, he scurried from behind the door, making his way towards his bed. Then, after donning the shirt he’d left lying on his bedside chair, he knelt on the floor, carrying out a frenzied search for his trousers.

  ‘There they be,’ he mumbled under his breath, hurriedly pulling them over his shivering legs, before jumping onto his bed and pressing himself into the corner, where he drew up his knees under his chin.

  A few minutes later the two officers returned, and then spent twenty minutes searching for proof of Morris’s guilt.

  ‘Och…there be nothin’ here. Let’s have a wee gander oot back. That may turn up somethin’. Bring the bairn, Constable. Ah’m certain that with a wee bit of persuasion we could get him to point us to where somethin’ may be hidden.’

  ‘Ah hope yer no plannin’ anythin’ physical ...’cause Ah’m no havin’ anythin’ to do with that.’

  ‘Dinna make a palaver. Ah’ll no do anythin’ to hurt him…Just bring him oot.’

  Having overheard what the sergeant had said, Cameron found it difficult to control his shaking as they led him from the cottage. It did cross his mind that maybe he should try to escape. After all, he didn’t think he would have much trouble out-running the sergeant. But then, what was the point? They knew who he was. Where could he run?

  Not long later a muted ‘over ’ere’ could be heard coming from inside the ramshackle shed near the bottom of the overgrown vegetable plot.

  Cameron crept towards the front of the shack and cautiously peered around the doorframe.

  Both Bobbies stood looking at a canvas sack, propped up against the wall under the

  Workbench, liberally strewn with dried slime and fish scales.

  ‘Well…pick it up then, Constable. We’ve no got all day.’

  ‘Och, greet.’

  Cameron retreated, leaning against the outdoor privy at the side of the cottage, as the two Bobbies ambled back to their wagon – where the constable gladly pitched their evidence into the back, alongside his manacled father.

  ‘What shall we do with the lad then? Do ye think we should take him with us, Sergeant?’

  ‘Dinna bother yoursel’ about him. Ah’m sure the wee rascal has family nearby he can run to. Besides, we’ll no be
wantin’ him growin’ up thinkin’ we’re some kinda public service…now do we?’ sniggered the sergeant.

  Climbing into their transport, the two policemen set off for town, chuckling at the sight of Morris bouncing around in the back of their rig, while at the same time totally disregarding the woeful-looking lad staring after them.

  Two hours later, a young boy with red-rimmed eyes, filthy clothes and mud-spattered boots, wandered up Church Street into Dufftown. It was still early in the day, and the sun had yet to creep over the hills to the east and cheer up the drab stone buildings lining each side of the roadway.

  Head down, eyes staring at the ground in front of his feet, Cameron passed the baker’s front door – the distinctive aroma from within reawakening the craving in his empty stomach. His despair increased with each step, his thoughts returning to the memories of that day a year before when they had buried his mother, and his life as he had known it had disappeared.

  Until then, he’d led what he assumed was a fairly normal life. His father had been bonded to the Duke of Richmond’s estate, so six days a week, from dawn to dusk, he laboured in the fields; his one treat being a day off to take the family to Summereves Fair, in Keith. And although the winter days were shorter, this was more than offset by the bitter weather, as he toiled outside coppicing, collecting wood and mending fences.

  At the same time, his mother had prepared their meals, tried her best to keep their home clean and, during the summer months, tended her vegetables. But there was no respite for her either in the long, dark days of winter. Because once she had completed her daytime burdens, she spent hours squinting in the shallow light of smoky, tallow candles, spinning for next year’s clothes.

  Upon reaching the intersection with Fife Street, a loud bang on Cameron’s left startled him back to the present. Glancing towards the clock tower, he glimpsed the all too familiar sight of old Mr Ramsay being ejected from the police station, after spending another night in the cells sobering up from a few too many ales at the inn.

  Making his way around the corner to his right, Cameron plodded down the wide street, passing the quiet, dark dressmakers and general store. In fact, the only sign of life in this part of town was the white cloud issuing from the stack at the Mortlach Distillery down by the river, and the coach-and-four being harnessed-up outside the blacksmith’s, in preparation for its morning departure to Huntly.

  Cameron returned to his previous state of mind, recalling with horror that moment a few hours before, when his father had been dragged from the cottage and tossed into the back of the policemen’s rig like some sack of rubbish.

  If only his father hadn’t lost his job on the Duke’s estate. Then maybe, he and his father wouldn’t have had to leave their previous home and move into the dilapidated, crofter’s cottage sitting on the hillside below Dufftown.

  At least his sister, Margaret, had been luckier. She had been wedded a few years before. And when her husband, Peter, had lost his job at the distillery, they had moved away to find employment; and from what he could remember, his mother had said they were ‘settled in Elgin and doin’ just fine’.

  Finally, Cameron turned the corner into Cowie Avenue, and began trudging past the long row of terraced stone cottages. When he reached number eleven he stopped, lifted his arm, and with the back of his sleeve rubbed the tears from his eyes. For a moment he hesitated, thinking it might be a bit too early to be knocking on his granny’s door. However, the doubt in his mind was soon put to rest, when the early morning stillness was broken by the clop, clop, clop, of Robbie the milkman’s horse, turning into the street.

  Pushing open the tired, wooden gate set into the flint stone wall, the rusty hinges creaked, seemingly determined to announce his arrival to every house on the street. Easing it closed, Cameron then turned, edging his way along the path.

  ‘Och, no,’ he mumbled, spotting a curtain moving in next door’s upstairs window. ‘Old, Mrs Murray wud have to be peerin’ oot’.

  But before he had time to worry further, the front door opened. And there, with her curly white hair, welcoming smile and arms opened wide stood his grandmother.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Helen put her arm around her grandson’s shoulders and ushered him into her kitchen. Then, after placing two cups of tea on the table, she moved to the pantry, retrieving a plate piled high with freshly made bannocks and a porcelain pot filled with honey.

  ‘Here we are then, Cameron. Come an sit yourself down…an then tell me what be botherin’ you.’

  As he recounted the morning’s dismal events Helen’s heart was saddened, not only by what had taken place, but also by the sight before her.

  Cameron’s mother, Anne, would never have allowed her son to go anywhere looking like this, if necessary, dragging him down to the river with a bar of carbolic to make sure he didn’t. And even though his clothes were nearly all hand-me-downs, she had always made sure they were clean and in good repair. However, since Anne’s untimely death from winter fever, Cameron’s upbringing had been anything but disciplined, and he now sat before her unwashed and in filthy rags, which had probably not seen soap since his mother’s funeral.

  Cameron’s father was her only child. But she had long since passed the point where she might have any influence over what course he would follow. And she had known that it was only a matter of time before the law finally caught up with him.

  Poaching on the Duke’s estate had been going on for generations by families eager to supplement their meagre diet – the occasional fish from the River Spey or small game from the heath seemingly never missed, or possibly even tolerated. But after the death of Cameron’s mother, Morris had lost all restraint, and began to treat the surrounding countryside like his own personal, hunting estate. Inevitably, Malcolm Campbell, the Duke’s estate manager, had been approached by his game keeper and, after listening to the evidence, had confronted Morris. Within minutes, the age-old enmity between the Stewarts and Campbells had re-surfaced. Morris had become enraged, blaming the manager and his ancestors for destroying the Highlands by supporting the English and helping to carry out the Clearances. The encounter could only have had one outcome, and Morris was given three days notice to vacate his tied cottage.

  By the time Cameron finished telling his tale; Helen knew what had to be done. A hot bath, fresh clothes and warm food were his most pressing needs; followed by a kindly ear, motherly love and the assurance of a warm home.

  ‘Nan, Ah no understand. Why have they dragged father off? Ah know he takes one or two fish from the Spey…but…but ’tis only so we no go hungry.’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s a wee bit more than that Cameron. Since your mother passed he’s been takin’ a lot of salmon an trout from the Spey...then sellin’ them on the sly. And from what I’ve been hearin’, he an that ruffian friend of his, Dougal, have been takin’ deer from the Duke’s estate as well, an then sharin’ it out with some of their other ne’er-do-well friends.’

  ‘Maybe ’tis ma fault,’ Cameron sniffed. ‘If it was no for me, he wudna have two people to feed…an…an maybe he no be in the hoose when they did come lookin’ for him.’

  ‘Don’t talk such foolishness. If he’d been lookin’ after you proper you wouldn’t be

  sittin’ here in them clothes… an he wouldn’t have had time to be out doin’ what he’s been doin’. Now…I’ll bring you a nice bowl of porridge an then fetch in the tin tub from out back. You finish your meal an have a bath, while I go down to the police station an see what I can learn.’

  ‘Stewart! Ye’ve a visitor,’ yelled the jailer.

  At first, Helen could see nothing but a dim space – the only illumination coming from one small barred window set high in the opposite wall. But, when her eyes did finally adjust to the lack of light, she was shocked. Never before had she seen such squalor; and the obnoxious smell emanating from the bucket on the far side of the cell was nearly overwhelming. Suddenly she felt faint and clung to the bars for support.

  �
�My God,’ she gasped. ‘What kinda place be this?’

  It was hard to believe that, from the outside, this building appeared to be just a smart clock tower and police station. And even though she had heard rumours about dark secrets hidden behind its pleasant façade, she had never imagined anything this ghastly.

  Just then a rat scurried across the room, having been frightened by a pile of rags in the corner. And while Helen’s attention was focused on that mound, to her amazement it also began to move.

  ‘Morris…is it you?’