Highland Justice

by Larry Stuart

  Huntly was built around a main square laid in bricks, in the centre of which stood the statue of some kilted Laird, set in a militaristic pose; and it wasn’t long before he learned that the monument had been erected in recognition of the first Duke of Gordon, who had established the town and whose ancestors still lived nearby at Huntly Lodge.

  Radiating out from Huntly’s square, like the spokes on a wheel, were four main roads. One led to the North West and the village of Keith, and one to the South West, back to Dufftown. To the South East was the main coach route to Aberdeen, while the road to the North East went to Banff and the coast.

  Cameron did have to admit, the buildings in Huntly were very pleasing to the eye. They were nearly all made from a light grey stone, which was quarried locally, and hopefully, he thought, would last longer than Huntly’s once famous castle, which had been built from the same stone, but had now fallen completely into disrepair.

  The town had all the usual shops necessary for life, and was – as some said – blessed, with two inns. Its increasing importance in the North East had been confirmed a few years earlier by the opening of the Scott hospital, and that, allied to the new railway line, was all that was required to bring in more investment.

  Huntly was already much larger than Dufftown, and supported such businesses as a tinplate works – making lamps for ships – and a mill, alongside the River Deveron, which had the dubious distinction of being the main supplier of oatmeal to the north of Scotland’s prisons. A boot and shoe factory had recently started production, and the town’s latest new employer, the Gordon Arms Hotel, was soon to open its doors just up the street from the station.

  As he and the other new men got to know their fellow workers, they began to hear about the harsher elements of their new employment. It seemed that track laying was only carried-out from spring to late autumn due to the poor weather and lack of daylight during the rest of the year. And thinking that this didn’t bode well for employment during the winter months, they were pleasantly surprised to hear that they were still kept busy in the winter, doing maintenance and emergency line clearance. However, that good news was tempered on discovering that maintenance was hardly ever required – which was a shame as it was the easy work – whereas line clearance was brutal, and kept them busy for most of the winter.

  The seasoned crew seemed more than happy to chronicle their previous winters’ trials, highlighting the rigours by calling attention to their scarred hands, missing fingertips and withered earlobes.

  ‘An, if ye think that’s no much fun…wait ’till spring,’ grumbled one of the older men. ‘Some years we get one landslide after t’other. An then spend days diggin’ for the tracks beneath that sloppy mess.’

  Having listened to their tales, Cameron decided he was lucky to be starting his new job in the summer. But by the end of his second week, he was no longer certain.

  Each morning when he had woken, the aching in his muscles seemed to be worse

  than the day before, and he had begun to wonder if his claw-like fingers would ever straighten again.

  ‘Come on, Stewart…Ye, too, McPherson. Get that rail over ’ere,’ the foreman yelled. ‘At this rate railways’ll be a thing of the past before we e’en come to Keith.’

  Monday, the 7th of July, was the warmest day of the summer so far, and the only part of Cameron’s shirt that wasn’t soaked was the bit hanging out at the back of his trousers. He and the rest of the crew grunted and cursed as they toiled in the midday sun, hauling the sleepers and rails from the flat-bed wagons following along behind them.

  ‘You know what, Duncan? … I thought winters sounded bad …but now, I’m no so sure. Just as ma back and arms were startin’ to feel normal again, we get this bloody heat. Still, I’m thinkin’ I know somethin’ that might make us feel a wee bit better.’

  ‘Oh, aye…an what might that be?’

  ‘You see that over there,’ Cameron said, pointing to his left. ‘The Deveron may be somewhat fresh…but as soon as we stop for lunch that’s where I’m goin’.’

  The cooling dip in the river provided only a short respite to the day’s seemingly endless slog. There was never any let-up, as the men were forced to keep up a steady pace, sandwiched between the horses and ploughs carving out the track-bed alongside the river, and the wagons loaded with ballast, sleepers, fishplates and rails being slowly, but continuously, pushed up behind them. Finally, just as the agonising misery of their sun-broiled bodies had become almost unbearable, the sun fell behind the Cairngorms and the day began to cool.

  But nature had one more misery in store for Cameron and his fellow workers. Because just as the men began to look forward to the end of their day, hundreds of thousands of midges descended on them, sending everyone scurrying for the wagons, hands and hats beating the air about their heads in a vain attempt to drive off the voracious tormentors.

  That evening, Cameron sat sipping a pint of ale at the Kings Head – a local hostelry near the depot.

  ‘Those damn midges,’ he cursed, scratching behind his ears.

  At the same time, his new friend, Duncan, sat opposite him, doing the same, only under the table to his ankles.

  It was here that Cameron had first met Duncan, and it was during their first week on the job that their friendship had developed. He, like Cameron, was from out of town, and although Duncan was nearly two years older, they shared the same sense of humour and outlook on life. Within days of getting to know each other, they had decided to cut their living costs by sharing a room, and by the end of that week had moved into Mrs McGee’s.

  Her boarding house had come highly recommended. Not necessarily because of the acceptable rent, or owner’s pleasant disposition, but more likely due to its position – being only a short stagger from the Kings Head. And as time went by, Cameron and

  Duncan’s appreciation of their choice increased, as they supported one another on their journeys home from the inn after an evening’s “relaxation”.

  The only part of Cameron’s education remaining to be mastered was the tricky business of relationships with the opposite sex – a situation with which he was becoming increasingly frustrated. Cameron had heard all the ribald remarks, and listened with some interest to the lustful bragging of some of his workmates. He knew all about Loose-Lottie, and what took place behind the station coal store, but had no intention of being schooled in that manner. He just couldn’t understand why he and Duncan seemed to be languishing at the back of the queue when it came to meeting comely females. Duncan was tall and well-built, with a mop of straw-coloured hair, which Cameron knew drew appreciative glances from most of the local lassies. And as for himself, well, at no time had he ever got the impression that he was particularly unattractive.

  Duncan suggested that maybe they were being too choosy, or just looking for girls in the wrong places. So one night, after a particularly long session at the inn, he coaxed Cameron to the rear of the hospital, having been reliably informed that this was where the young nurses lived. Unfortunately, their alcohol-impaired sneak attack was detected by a corpulent matron on her way home who, with the flailing of her rolled-up umbrella, and threats of the police, saw off the two Romeos.

  ‘Och…nae mind,’ Duncan stammered, as they scampered for home. ‘Ah heard a rumour the other day that a textile mill is gonny open next year…just out of Huntly on the Banff road. That should bring plenty of lassies for us to choose from.’

  ‘Aye… well maybe our luck is set to change after all,’ Cameron replied. ‘The foreman told me that the Gordon Arms Hotel is havin’ a big Hogmanay party this year. So…how about you an me buyin’ tickets? You never know… maybe two likely-looking females will show up…an feel sorry for us?’

  The following day, Cameron was sitting on the bench outside the front door of the depot. Duncan’s head lay against his shoulder, and his anaemic-looking face would have suggested a near death experience to anyone not familiar with his over-indulgent evenings. Cameron’s head still throb
bed, and his hands shook ever so slightly as he endeavoured to hold up, and read, the front page of Huntly’s “Highlands” newspaper.

  The headline that morning went a long way to answering the question he’d had in his mind since the first day of his job.

  * * *

  MORTLACH TO EXPAND PRODUCTION

  Dufftown’s Mortlach Distillery has announced

  further expansion plans, which by the year’s end

  will more than double their current production

  * * *

  Clearly, the railway’s intention from the beginning had been to make their profits from freight. Glendronach had been producing whisky near Huntly since1826, and the Longmore Distillery in Keith was renowned as the oldest distillery in the north east of Scotland. Whisky from the Mortlach Distillery, and these two other Companies, was in demand throughout Scotland and England. And some even said it was about to be shipped to North America.

  Finally, more than thirty minutes late, the yard engine steamed into sight hauling the three wagons loaded with the crew’s materials for the day.

  Putting on his cap Cameron turned to his friend, nudging him in the ribs.

  ‘Come on, Duncan. Our transport is here…And whatever you do, don’t you go throwin’ up on me like you did last week.’

  ‘Shhush! Ah heard somethin’,’ Morris whispered.

  Dougal, his partner in crime, who’d been helping Morris in his exploits ever since losing his own croft, stopped, and then threw his massive bulk as flat as possible behind the gorse bush at his side. Initially, as he desperately tried to control his breathing and make himself as small as possible, the only sound he heard was the beating of his own heart.

  The problem was the salmon didn’t do as they were told. They still flipped and flopped about in the gunny sack over Morris’s shoulder, sounding like the muted applause at the end of a town hall meeting. That, the lively chirps of sparrows and deep staccato g’hak, g’hak calls of grouse grubbing for food were the predominant noises in the dawn’s misty light.

  Suddenly, the loud drumming of galloping hooves broke through nature’s chorus.

  Dougal thought his heart would explode. In front of him, Morris dropped to the ground behind a fallen trunk, the fish-filled sack shooting upwards into the air before falling back down on top of his head. Both men held their breath, until a flash of brown hair– headed by antlers – thundered past their position.

  Seconds later, Dougal began to giggle, his right eyelid drooping over its empty socket as his hands searched the gorse at his side for his wayward eye patch.

  Morris stood up, picking up his cap from the dirt, while at the same time cursing the fish slime pasting his hair to his scalp. And as serenity once more returned to the natural world, the spooked buck disappeared into the distance.

  Dougal also began to rise, but got no further than one knee before Morris’s body flew forwards, as if yanked by some unseen force. At the same time, the sack containing their booty had flown through the air, and was now ten yards away, disgorging its contents into the nearby bracken. As Dougal looked over at his friend’s body lying face down on the ground, a red circle appeared on Morris’s back, spreading outwards at an alarming rate.

  It was at that moment he heard the echo of the Snider-Enfield rifle booming off the hillsides as it progressed down the glen. The .577 bore barrel was accurate to extreme distances, and he knew of only one man in these parts who owned one of those. Dougal was immediately back on all-fours, scrambling through the heather and bracken, scared out of his wits, knowing that he had very little time to make good his escape before the rifle was re-loaded.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The row of silver birches guarding the graveyard’s western boundary swayed like drunken skeletons in the freshening breeze, while nearer the ground, their previously discarded leaves swirled about the churchyard, momentarily caressing anything in their path before being driven on their way. In an almost surreal way, the old Pictish stone cross, which had stood in this cemetery for over a thousand years, cast its shadow over the grave, as the sun peeked through a break in the cloud-filled sky.

  Cameron stood statue-like in front of the cold, pitiless grave. Helen clung to his right arm, softly weeping under a veiled, large-brimmed hat, while to his left stood his elder sister, Margaret, dabbing at her eyes with a small, white handkerchief.

  Even though Cameron forced his eyelids closed, it proved impossible to erase the picture in his mind of what lay before him. His head lifted as he tried looking beyond the coffin, but the imagery deteriorated even further, his eyes locking onto his mother’s headstone – only partially obscured by Reverend Logan’s billowing cassock. A shiver of emotion coursed through his body as he scanned the horizon in a vain attempt to distance himself from the proceedings.

  ‘… we therefore commit his body to the ground, earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, in sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life …’

  A movement on the periphery of Cameron’s vision drew his attention. Squinting into the scattered sunshine he glimpsed two blurred figures, standing in the doorway of the old watch-house – their heads bowed and their faces almost hidden by caps and ragged scarves.

  A long time ago, the building now obscuring those two silent onlookers had been used by men whose job it was to guard against body-snatchers; and for a moment Cameron wondered if they thought his father needed protection from that same fate. But in his heart he knew. Dougal and his new partner were only maintaining a respectable distance from the proceedings, unsure of their welcome by Morris’s family.

  The service ended with the recitation of the Lord’s Prayer, followed by a few minutes silence. Then the piper engaged by Cameron struck up his melancholy lament. The haunting dirge overwhelmed all other sounds, sending shivers up everyone’s spine until the tune and bellows had been exhausted.

  Moments later, Reverend Logan, Duncan and a few old friends of Helen moved forward to pay their respects, before quietly melting away.

  ‘At least they be together now,’ sobbed Helen, placing a small posy of flowers on Morris’s coffin, and then turning to place another against Anne’s headstone.

  ‘Come away then, Nan…you must be getting cold,’ Cameron said, reaching down to help her up. ‘And I think we could all do with a wee dram.’

  Cameron set down his empty glass on the mantelpiece, and when he turned and looked down at his grandmother, sitting quietly sipping her tea – heartened by a goodly measure of the local distillery’s medicine – he was appalled by what he saw. Staring, empty eyes and grim, puckered lips had replaced her well-known, cheery smile, while the skin on her face had taken on a waxy paleness, with tired flesh hanging from her cheeks.

  ‘I’m going to walk Margaret to the post office to catch her coach back to Elgin. When I get back, Nan, I’ll make us some supper. You just rest there till I come home.’

  Cameron waited in the hallway by the front door as Margaret and Helen said their goodbyes. Then, after closing the door, he took his sister’s arm and they set off for the post office. For the first few minutes they strolled along in silence, Cameron not quite sure whether Margaret was still emotionally overwrought by the day’s events or preoccupied with other matters.

  ‘Are you all right? You seem unnaturally quiet. I know today was no happy occasion but…’

  ‘I’m fine, Cameron. I guess today just bothered me more than I be thinkin’ it would.’

  ‘Aye, I know what you mean… I certainly hope Nan gets better. She looks terrible.’

  Again they lapsed into silence, and as they turned into Fife Street, Cameron decided that the subject everyone had been skirting around all day had to be addressed.

  ‘Where’s Peter? How come he’s no here today?’

  He’d barely got the questions out before she stopped and turned to him.

  ‘He’s no well, Cameron. That’s all,’ she snapped.

  Taking her arm again, they crossed the street and soon
reached the post office. He suspected she was hiding something, but could tell from the look on her face that maybe now was not the time to be pestering her.

  Once Margaret’s coach had departed, Cameron slowly strolled back towards Cowie Avenue, his thoughts troubled by the ordeal of the last few days. It was only now that the reality of the death of his father had begun to take hold, and it wasn’t only his grandmother and sister that had been affected by what had happened. A void now existed in his life where his mother and father should have been. Somehow, he had always taken it for granted that they would always be there but, as he now had to accept, that was not to be.

  ‘I’m home, Nan. Is there anythin’ I can fetch you?’ he asked, sticking his head around the parlour door. ‘How’s about a wee warm drink before supper?’

  Helen’s head went slowly back and forth, and then with a fearsome look on her face, she hauled herself from the chair.