Highland Justice

by Larry Stuart

  ‘For sure, it isnae the Duke of Richmond…now is it?’

  Having now regained some of her composure, Helen relaxed her grip on the bars,

  while at the same time she glared at her son.

  ‘’Tis your fault Morris…and you know it!’

  ‘Aye…anyway the Magistrate’s due here tomorra… so Ah’ll soon know what they be

  plannin’ for me.’

  ‘You know they’ll put you away this time…don’t you?’

  ‘Aye…that they will.’

  ‘Well, you canna say you don’t deserve it. By the way…just in case you be wonderin’,’ Helen continued, sarcastically, ‘Your lad is now at my hoose…an I think it’s time you an I had a wee talk about his future.’

  By the time she left, Helen had coerced her son into agreeing to her plan. Cameron would have to stay with her anyway, while his father was behind bars. But what she had really wanted was Morris’s agreement to leave Cameron with her until the lad was old enough to look after himself. In the end, it hadn’t been all that difficult. In his own way, Morris did love his son. And, of course, it was quite convenient to have someone at home to run errands and prepare meals. But in truth, he didn’t really want the responsibility.

  Helen hurried down Fife Street, desperately hoping she wouldn’t come across anyone she knew, sure in her own mind that the unsavoury odours from the cells would still be clinging to her clothes. For the first time since the death of her husband, Andrew, she felt she had a purpose in her life, and maybe in some way, a chance to make up for her lack of success in bringing up her own son.

  Morris had been a difficult child, wanting to spend all of his time out in the wilds with his grandfather – where the old man had filled his head with tales of the Highlanders’ glorious history. She had tried to keep him under control, but after Andrew had passed away she gave up, no longer having the strength to fight her son’s disobedience or irrepressible obsession with the past.

  Cameron, though, was another story. So far, he had not displayed any of his father’s boisterous or ill-tempered nature, and with luck might be persuaded to shrug off the Stewarts’ insatiable desire to redress the past. She knew education was the key to enlightenment – having been lucky enough herself to be well-read thanks to her mother’s encouragement – and with that in mind had already decided to talk to Reverend Logan, the Minister at Mortlach Church, whom she hoped could be persuaded to use his influence to get Cameron into the local school.

  On her arrival home, Helen could see that Cameron had done as asked. His cheeks glowed from his soaking in the bath, and his hair looked clean for the first time in months. Before he could say a word she rushed over to him, wrapping her arms around him and squeezing him to her bosom.

  ‘You look so much better now,’ Helen murmured, struggling to keep her emotions in check.

  After finally being released from her rather crushing hug, Cameron had turned and walked back towards the parlour.

  ‘Oh…by the way, Nan,’ he’d said, turning his head to the side as he moved away.

  ‘Ah dinna know what to do with ma old clothes, so Ah just threw them in the corner alongside the back door.’

  ‘That be just fine,’ she replied, knowing that that was only one step away from where

  they were going anyway – in the rubbish.

  From those first days of Morris’s incarceration, Helen had gladly stepped into the shoes vacated by the untimely death of Cameron’s mother. But, as she was well aware, it was never going to be easy. Her parents had left her enough money to buy her little house, and she and Andrew had managed to put a little away. But it was not nearly enough. So to help make ends meet, she began to take in washing from the Inn and sewing from the dressmaker.

  But financial concerns were not all that plagued her thoughts.

  In the recent past, her days had been long, highlighted only by her questionable need for trips to the shops, and hours spent leaning against the front wall trading gossip with Mrs Murray. But now, time seemed to race by. The moment she dreaded was fast approaching. Morris’s sentence was nearly complete, and she had no way of knowing what demands he would make on his return.

  When the day finally came, to her amazement, the year he’d spent behind bars in Perth had made him realize that his son’s future would be better served staying with his grandmother. And even more astounding was his revelation that he would try to help her in whatever way he could. Of course, in hindsight, she realised he hadn’t been totally sober that day.

  So, it came as no real surprise when a week later, he showed up on her doorstep with a salmon wrapped in an old cloth tucked under his coat. With gentle persuasion, she managed to convince him that this was not really much help.

  ‘After all,’ as she explained. ‘If I were to get caught disposin’ of them bones, I’d most likely be charged as your accomplice.’

  But he hadn’t been completely sober that day either, which explains why the following week he again stood at her front door, this time wearing a Cheshire-cat grin on his face as he quickly handed her something suspiciously heavy bundled up in an old newspaper. As soon as she unwrapped what turned out to be a haunch of venison, she threw it back at him, and then stood in the doorway with her fists clenched at her hips.

  ‘An how’re you proposin’ I cook this thing without the whole street smellin’ what’s for dinner? If you really want to help, you can give me a few coins each week to help me with my expenses. Cameron has no stopped growin’ you know? He still has need of clothes an shoes for school.’

  Having been duly chastised, and now poorer by two shillings, Morris tramped back towards Fife Street, head down, eyes furtively scanning back-and-forth beneath his ragged old tam o’shanter.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Cameron readily adjusted to his new way of life. For the first time, he discovered the enjoyment of socialising with people of his own age – once two bloodied noses had helped him to understand that, even at school, there was an established hierarchy. And although he sometimes found the discipline of schoolwork exasperating, with his grandmother’s urging he soon began to make progress.

  Each night Helen would help him with his reading, writing and arithmetic; and at the beginning he was happy to let her lead the way. But before long, his thirst for knowledge, and childlike desire to show off his newfound abilities, began to reverse their roles.

  Cameron’s second year at school began in much the same way as his first – the only difference being that it took just one bloody nose before he finally accepted that it would not be until his final years at school that he would command any respect outside the classroom.

  Cameron still felt affection towards his father. So when his father had asked if he would like to spend Sunday afternoons with him, Cameron had gone to Helen, badgering her all week until she agreed.

  On the following Sunday, after the congregation had bade their goodbyes and set off for home, Cameron did his best to suppress a smile as his father doffed his hat, held his hand over his heart and, with the most contrite look that he could muster, promised Helen he would never involve his son in any of his illegal exploits.

  Thereafter, each Sunday, Cameron would dash down the church’s front steps, and after glancing over his shoulder and throwing a wave to his grandmother, would hurry after his father. The two of them spent their days exploring the glens, climbing the sheep-grazed hills until, out of breath, they’d reach another peak. Whereupon, finding a spring they would have a drink before following the water down – Cameron gazing in wonderment as, on occasion it would grow into a burn, and then a meandering stream that eventually joined the mighty Spey.

  The wonders of nature did not stop there either. His father spent hours teaching him how to read the signs left by footprints, droppings and broken grasses. And if they were lucky, the odd roe-deer, fox, or blue hare might stumble into view, before taking fright and once more vanishing into the shadows; while all around them, nature’s feathered creatures woul
d provide a continuous chorus of background music.

  One night after supper, Cameron sat in the front room doing his homework, while

  Helen busied herself sewing.

  ‘Did I tell you that father’s got a new job?’

  ‘Why no,’ Helen replied rather hesitantly, her brows furrowed as she glanced up from her lap.

  ‘He now works part-time down at the sawmill…fellin’ trees an draggin’ ’em back to

  the yard with the help of Tiny, the Shire horse.’

  ‘Well…that’s good, is it not?’

  Cameron returned to his homework, while Helen got up and went to the kitchen.

  Returning five minutes later, she set down two cups of tea, before once more picking up her sewing.

  ‘Nan…Why does father hate Mr Campbell so much?’

  ‘Och…I don’t think ’tis so much,’ Helen replied, haltingly.

  ‘I’m no too sure. I remember father cursing him plenty. After what happened at Culloden, I could understand him no likin’ the Campbell family if they be Sassenachs. But, they’re no that, are they?’

  Helen sighed.

  ‘They’ve probably no told you this at school, Cameron…because doubtless, they’re no allowed to. In the lead up to the battle at Culloden, the Campbell clan would have nothin’ to do with the Jacobites, an like the Gordons fought alongside the English, slaughterin’ anybody that supported the Prince. After it were over, the English handed out huge tracts of land to the Gordons. In fact, most of the estates around here were given to the Third Duke of Gordon, and remained in his family until they all died out. After that, the land was granted to the Duke of Richmond. He handed over the running of his Scottish estates to Malcolm Campbell’s family, who have carried out that task with ruthless efficiency and a blatant disregard for the welfare of anyone they employed. That’s why the Campbells have come to symbolize all that is wrong in these parts and are hated by all true Highlanders.’

  Cameron’s head nodded as his mind added these bits of information to his ever-increasing knowledge of Scotland’s tragic history.

  After a further twenty minutes, Cameron closed his book before looking over at Helen, now dozing in her threadbare, old chair. It was the first time he’d taken any notice of her worn, arthritic-looking hands. And as his eyes moved upwards they settled on her face, now tired and grey-looking with wrinkles spreading outwards from the corners of her eyes.

  The following evening Cameron wandered into town, hoping to intercept his father on his nightly visit to the ale house. Sitting on the edge of the trough outside the Fife Arms Hotel, he looked down at the water just as a gust of wind disturbed its surface. A shiver ran through his body, and he hoped he wouldn’t have to wait too much longer as more gusts arrived, reminding him that winter was once more in the offing. Moments later, he became aware of the squelching of muddy boots approaching from behind.

  ‘Cameron...Whit’re ye doin’ out here so late? Are ye no well? Is Helen ill?’

  ‘No, no, father…nothin’ like that. We both be fine. I’ve just been thinkin’. I need to find some kind of job. I mean, well…I want to earn some money of ma own. So I been thinkin’, maybe you could ask at the sawmill for me?’

  Over the next three years, Cameron’s appetite for learning continued unabated; while at the same time his standing amongst his contemporaries heightened – it must be said, though, only in direct proportion to his increase in physical stature.

  Mondays to Fridays were spent at school, while on Saturdays he worked alongside his father, stripping the newly felled trees of their branches, before helping to attach them to Tiny’s harness for the trip back to the mill.

  As time went by, the burden of his schoolwork, plus his desire to spend at least some of his time with his friends, meant that Cameron’s Sunday outings with his father began to slip away. At first he felt somewhat guilty, but as he was only a young lad, those thoughts were soon pushed to the back of his mind.

  After five years, Cameron’s formal education came to an end.

  The school’s doors closed June 20th, the day before the solstice, so that all could enjoy the summer fair. His final school report was on the whole complimentary – apart from a short comment concerning his inability to apply himself when it came to literature. His only observation to his grandmother about that criticism had been that, he had ‘no intention of following in the footsteps of Robbie Burns anyway’!

  The following Saturday, as Cameron prepared to go home from the sawmill, the manager beckoned to him from the office doorway.

  ‘Now what have I done?’ he murmured under his breath, as he plodded his way towards the main building.

  Five minutes later, he walked out of the office. Not only had he not been let go, but in fact had been offered a full time job. Apparently, the mill had just won a contract from a railway company requiring more sleepers, so the manager was desperate to find more wood-cutters.

  Cameron headed home with his mind in turmoil. He appreciated the mill offering him full time employment; after all, jobs were difficult to come by. But coming home every day covered in sawdust, with aching muscles, was not the future he had envisaged. At the same time, though, he did owe it to his grandmother to provide her with an easier life.

  Moving to one side to get past a tall, well-dressed man standing outside the post office, he noticed a flyer, which he assumed the man had just pinned to the notice board.

  * * *

  GREAT NORTH of SCOTLAND RAILWAY

  Requires suitable employees to build line extension

  Huntly to Keith and Dufftown

  Apply at Town Hall – this Saturday, 28th June, 1870

  * * *

  The man in the dark suit turned and began to walk away, at which point Cameron took three quick steps to get ahead, and then turned to face him – at the same time, hesitantly raising his hand

  ‘Excuse me, Sir. Would you be knowin’ what time someone might be at the town hall on Saturday...’cause I would like to be the first in line?’

  ‘Well…you’re certainly keen...and obviously you can read. Have you ever worked before?’

  ‘Yes, Sir. For the last three years I’ve been workin’ at the sawmill on Saturdays… I would have done more, but I were at school all week.’

  ‘Well…you certainly sound like you’ve been educated,’ the man said, raising his hand to his face, his thumb and curled fingers resting against his chin. ‘Hmm…You seem a bit young, but I like your manner. Furthermore, with your education you never know…you might just have a future in this business. Tell you what. Be here next Monday morning at six o’clock for the coach to Huntly. We’ll start you on track laying and see how you do.’

  Cameron couldn’t believe his luck. He didn’t know anything about track laying, but in school they’d been told that a new industrial age was upon them and the railways were leading the way. Apparently, trains already connected the major cities in England, and now a line even ran from Liverpool via Manchester all the way to Glasgow. In Scotland, a new company called the Scottish North Eastern Railway was taking passengers from Aberdeen to Edinburgh and, according to the local newspaper, the GNSR had plans to extend their route, currently running from Aberdeen to Huntly, all the way to Inverness. This was the line that would eventually connect to Dufftown, although it was beyond him why anyone would want to connect a railway to this little town.

  On the following Monday, Cameron was overawed by his first sight of the gleaming steel locomotive, idly puffing away at the station in Huntly. Never in his life had he ever been near anything man-made that was so enormous. And it was beyond his wildest imagination that people actually got to ride in those luxurious wooden coaches, which were even fitted with steam heating to keep the passengers warm during winter.

  ‘All ye new men line up over ’ere,’ ordered a lanky, stern-looking fellow. ‘Ma name’s Robert Stevens…an Ah be yer foreman…so listen up. The first thing we’re gonny do is fill out some papers. Then Ah will take ye ove
r to the depot…where we will give ye some work clothes and boots. After ye’ve changed, we’ll go out to where the track laying to Keith has already started…so ye can see what ye’ll be doin’ an meet the rest of the crew.’

  The day had been a real eye-opener. It didn’t take much imagination to realize that working for the railway was going to be a back-breaking and filthy job. The pay was certainly more than Cameron could ever have earned at the mill, but the task sounded arduous. Twelve-hour shifts starting at seven were the norm, which meant staying at a boarding house in Huntly during the week and then travelling home after work on Saturdays.

  After returning to the depot, the new men had been given the rest of the day off to find

  themselves some accommodation and get settled in. So, once he’d cleaned up, Cameron wandered into town.