His Bloody Project

by Graeme Macrae Burnet

  Lachlan Broad glowered at him. The suggestion was quite impractical as such an action would involve a journey of seventy miles to Dingwall, and, moreover, any failure to accept the adjudication of the constable would be poorly received in the community. ‘Perhaps the factor would be interested in hearing about what has occurred.’

  ‘I can assure you,’ said Mr Finlayson, ‘that the factor has more important matters to concern himself with than the loss of a sheep. As Mr Macrae has accepted my proposal I suggest you do the same.’

  Lachlan Broad indicated with a gesture of his hand that he accepted the judgement. My father, who had barely spoken during the proceedings, then raised a craggy finger. The constable asked him if there was something he wished to say.

  ‘The matter of payment,’ said my father.

  ‘Yes?’ said Mr Finlayson.

  With some difficulty my father explained that while he accepted the settlement, he did not, at that time, have thirty-five shillings, nor anything like it.

  This caused Lachlan Broad and his brother great mirth. ‘I am sorry to hear that, John Black,’ he said. ‘Perhaps I could take that gloomy daughter of yours instead. I’m sure I could put a smile on her face.’

  ‘We could both put a smile on her gloomy face,’ put in Aeneas Mackenzie, with a stupid giggle.

  Kenny Smoke rose from his seat and leaned across the table. ‘I will not have such talk in my house, Lachlan Broad.’

  ‘Perhaps you would rather I had one of your daughters,’ said Broad. ‘The eldest is quite ripe now.’

  Kenny Smoke became quite red in the face and I was sure he was about to fly at him, but Calum Finlayson rose from his seat and placed a hand on his chest.

  Lachlan Broad broke into a laugh, his arms folded across his chest. Kenny Smoke remained standing for some moments, glaring at Broad, who smirked back at him. My father stared at the table in front of him. Under the table I could see his hand worrying at the coarse cloth of his breeches.

  Eventually, Kenny Smoke resumed his seat and Mr Finlayson, no doubt anxious to bring the proceedings to a close, continued, ‘Given Mr Macrae’s circumstances, I propose that the sum agreed be paid at a rate of one shilling per week until it is settled.’

  Lachlan Broad shrugged his shoulders. ‘So be it,’ he said in a mocking tone, ‘I would not wish to be the cause of any hardship to my poor neighbour here.’

  And in this way the discussions were concluded. Lachlan Broad pushed back his chair and slapped his brother twice on the thigh to indicate that they were leaving. When they were gone Kenny Smoke let go a long breath and uttered an oath which does not bear repeating here. Mr Finlayson told me that I had conducted myself well. Kenny Smoke went to the dresser and fetched a bottle of whisky and four glasses, which he placed on the table between us. I was gratified that he had included a glass for me, but, before the whisky could be poured, my father stood up and thanked Mr Finlayson for the fairness of his ruling, though I could not help but think that he would have happily agreed to Lachlan Broad’s proposal to have me flogged. Kenny Smoke begged him to share a dram, but he refused. Father then prodded me on the arm and we left. I feared a second beating when we got home, but I was merely deprived of my supper. I lay on my bunk picturing Kenny Smoke and Calum Finlayson drinking whisky and laughing about the incident while my father nursed his pipe in the gathering gloom.

  * * *

  My cell here in Inverness is five paces long and two wide. Two planks fastened to the wall and covered with straw serve as a bed. There are two pails in the corner, one in which I perform my ablutions, the other for my bodily functions. An unglazed window, the size of a man’s hand, sits high in the wall opposite the door. The walls are thick, and only by standing with my back pressed to the door am I able to see a small rectangle of sky. The purpose of the window is, I imagine, less to afford the occupant of the cell a view than to allow a little air to circulate. Nevertheless, in the absence of other diversions, it is surprising how much entertainment can be gleaned from watching the slow alterations in a small patch of sky.

  My gaoler is a great brute of a fellow, so wide he has to turn sideways to enter my cell. He wears a leather waistcoat, a filthy chemise hanging outside his breeches and heavy boots which clatter noisily as he makes his way up and down the flagstones of the passage outside. He keeps his breeches tied around his ankles with string. This puzzles me as I have seen no mice or other vermin here, but I have not asked him the reason for it. Nor have I asked his name.

  The gaoler treats me with neither kindness nor contempt. In the morning he brings me a piece of bread and some water and, if my pail is full, he removes it. In the first few days I made some attempts to converse with him, but he did not respond. When the table and chair at which I am writing this document were brought to me, he made no comment. He is not a mute, however, as I have sometimes heard him conversing in the passage. I suppose I am a matter of no concern to him and no different from the occupants of the other cells along the passage. There is, in any case, little to talk about here. After he has left, I hear him performing the same duties in the remaining cells. I have not seen anything of my fellow inmates and nor do I have any wish to, as I have no desire to fraternise with criminals. At night, men often cry out in the coarsest terms or hammer on the doors of their cells with their fists, activities which only serve to set the other men shouting for quiet. These periods of uproar last for some time, before all of a sudden the clamour subsides and there are only the faint sounds of the night outside.

  Every second day I am taken from my cell and allowed to stretch my legs in a cobbled enclosure. On the first occasion I was unsure of what to do there. On account of the height of the walls, no sunlight reaches the ground and the cobbles are slimy and overgrown with moss. I observed that around the edges of the yard, a path had been worn and so I took to pacing around the perimeter. The gaoler remains all the time at the entrance, but I do not have the impression that he is observing me. I feel some pity towards him. His life here appears no more pleasant than mine and long after I have left this place he will remain. The distance around the yard is twenty-eight paces, and I generally complete around sixty circuits in the time allowed to me. This is roughly the distance between Culduie and Camusterrach and I try to imagine that this is where I am walking.

  Later in the day I am brought a bowl of soup with a piece of bread or a bannock. The majority of my time is passed in the production of this document. I cannot see that what I am writing here will be of interest to anyone, but I am glad to have some activity with which to occupy myself.

  In the first days of my incarceration, I had little time to accustom myself to my new surroundings, inundated as I was by numerous visits from officers of the law. I was frequently taken to a room in another part of the gaol in order that I might be interrogated about my deeds. The same questions were put to me on so many occasions, so that I no longer had to think about my responses. I frequently had the impression that it would please my interlocutors if I were to invent some other version of events or to attempt in some way to absolve myself of responsibility for what I have done, but I did not do so. I have been treated courteously by everyone and would have liked to repay their kindness, but I could see no purpose in lying. Often, when I had repeated my story for the third or fourth time, those present would exchange glances as if I had amused them in some way, or was a mystery to them. However, having reflected on this, I imagine that such gentlemen are more accustomed to dealing with criminals who are disinclined to admit their guilt. Eventually, I told my story in the presence of a writer, and after numerous cautions that I was not obliged to do so, signed my name to a statement.

  Now, aside from my visits from my advocate, Mr Sinclair, I have little human contact. This morning, however, I was interrupted in my labours by a visit from the prison doctor. He was a genial man with ruddy cheeks and unruly whiskers. He introduced himself as Dr Munro and informed me that
he was required to ascertain the state of my health. I told him that I was quite well, but he nevertheless asked me to remove my shirt and conducted a thorough examination. As he busied himself around me, I could smell his breath, which had the sweet stench of fresh manure, and I was relieved when he completed his examination and retreated from me. He then put a series of questions to me regarding my crimes and I gave my customary responses. Now and again he took a pewter flask from the inside pocket of his coat and swigged from it. He noted my answers in a little book and did not seem in the least perturbed by anything I told him. When he had concluded his questions he folded his arms and regarded me with some interest. He asked me if I was sorry for what I had done. I told him I was not and, in any case, it mattered little whether I was sorry or not, what was done could not be undone.

  ‘That is quite true,’ he said. After some moments he added, ‘You are quite the curiosity, Roderick Macrae.’

  I replied that I was not a curiosity to myself, and that he was likely as much of a curiosity to me as I was to him. At this he laughed jovially to himself and not for the first time I was surprised by the affable way I was treated, as if I was guilty of no more than the theft of a pat of butter.

  * * *

  Towards the end of the yellow months, Mr Gillies paid a visit to my father. It was early evening and Jetta was clearing away the bowls from our evening meal. My father was taken aback by the arrival of the schoolmaster, who appeared in the doorway, still holding the reins of his garron. I was sent outside to tether the pony and, having done so, I remained by him a few minutes, stroking his neck and murmuring in his ear. When I went inside, Mr Gillies was sitting on the bench at the table and Jetta was preparing him a cup of tea. A bannock had been set on a plate in front of him. My father stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, fidgeting with his pipe, unwilling to sit in the presence of his better. Mr Gillies was making various enquiries of Jetta and telling my father what a pleasure it had been to teach her. When he saw me in the doorway, he said in a jovial manner, ‘Here’s the boy!’

  He then asked my father if he would not sit down, and my father took his place at the head of the table.

  ‘I have noted that since our term has resumed, Roddy has not returned to school.’

  My father puffed steadily on his pipe. ‘He is not a child,’ he said.

  ‘That is quite true and as such he is no longer required to attend school,’ said Mr Gillies. ‘However, perhaps Roddy has told you of the conversation he and I had at the end of the last school term?’

  My father replied that I had not told him of any conversation. Mr Gillies then looked towards me and invited me to join them at the table.

  When I had sat down, he continued. ‘Our discussion concerned your son’s future, that is, with regard to his continuing education. Did he not mention this to you?’

  ‘He did not,’ said my father.

  Mr Gillies then looked at me and furrowed his brow. ‘Well,’ he said in a breezy tone, ‘your son has shown considerable potential in his school work, potential which in my view it would be shameful to squander.’

  My father glared at me as though I had committed some misdemeanour or was guilty of conspiring with the schoolmaster behind his back.

  ‘Squandered?’ he repeated, as if the word was entirely alien to him.

  Mr Gillies looked around our dim abode, quite aware of the trap which my father had set for him. He took a sip of his tea before answering.

  ‘I mean simply that were he to continue his education, he might, in the future, have a greater number of paths from which to choose.’

  ‘What sort of paths?’ My father knew very well what sort of paths Mr Gillies meant. I have no doubt he was vaguely aware of my achievements in the classroom, but he had never shown any interest in them or offered me any praise.

  ‘I have no doubt that Roddy could aspire to become a ...’ – here, he cast his eyes towards the roof-trees as if he was contemplating the question for the first time – ‘... to become a minister or a schoolmaster. Or anything he wished.’

  ‘To become someone like yourself?’ said my father, rudely.

  ‘All I mean, Mr Macrae, is that certain options would be open to him.’

  My father shifted his weight on the bench. ‘You mean that he might become something better than a crofter,’ he said.

  ‘I would not say better, Mr Macrae, but different certainly. I put this to you only to be assured that you are aware of the opportunities afforded to your son.’

  ‘We have no use for opportunities here,’ said my father. ‘The boy is required to work on the croft and earn money for his family through his labour.’

  Mr Gillies responded by saying that perhaps it might be useful to ask what I would like to do. At this my father got to his feet.

  ‘We shall do no such thing,’ he said.

  Mr Gillies did not rise from his seat. ‘If it is a question of money,’ he said, ‘certain arrangements can be made.’

  ‘We have no call for your charity here, Mr Schoolmaster.’

  Mr Gillies opened his mouth to speak, but then thought better of it. He nodded, as if to accept that the matter was closed, and stood up. He stepped towards my father and offered him his hand, which was refused.

  ‘I did not intend to give offence, Mr Macrae.’

  My father made no answer and Mr Gillies, having bid good evening to myself and Jetta, who for the duration of the conversation had occupied herself with the washing of our bowls, took his leave.

  I accompanied him outside on the pretext of assisting him with his pony. I wished him to know that I was grateful for his visit, but had I been asked I would have agreed with my father that I was now required to work for the family and that such things were not meant for the likes of us. In any case, none of the boys of my age in the parish attended school and I would have felt foolish sitting among the children. Nor did I wish to become a man like Mr Gillies with his weak features and pink, flabby hands. He thanked me for untethering his pony and told me that should I wish to return to school I would be very welcome and that arrangements could be made to pay the fees. I am sure that he did not expect to see me again and in this he was correct. I watched him climb onto his pony and ride slowly out of the village. His legs reached almost to the ground, so that he cut a quite comic figure. The garron plodded along with the characteristic gait of the Highland pony, as if expecting at any moment to strike its head on a low beam.

  My father’s plans for me to contribute to the income of the household proved futile. Soon after the conversation with Mr Gillies he secured a position for me for the duration of the stalking season. I was to report at first light to the ghillie’s lodge and this I did. The ghillie was a tall man with narrow eyes and a thick, wiry beard, speckled with grey. He was wearing tweed breeches with thick woollen stockings and stout brogues. His waistcoat was unbuttoned and he held a pipe with an S-shaped stem in his left hand. He asked my name and I replied that I was Roderick Macrae of Culduie. He looked me up and down and told me to wait in the courtyard at the back of the Big House.

  I continued through the grounds feeling, despite the sanction of the ghillie, like a trespasser, but no one challenged me. The courtyard was accessed through a stone archway to the right of the main entrance. I found myself in a cobbled yard with stables along one side and, on the other, windows looking into the kitchens of the house. I did not wish to press my nose against the glass, but there appeared to be a great deal of activity within. I leaned against the wall to the right of the kitchen door and did my best to look as if I belonged there. I could hear the horses shifting and whinnying in their stalls. I imagined them to be great thoroughbreds and I longed to enter the stables and look at them, but did not do so for fear of being reprimanded. Presently another boy, a little older than myself, arrived. He did not speak, but stared at me quite openly. He leaned against the wall of the stable, placing
the sole of his right boot against it so that it formed a triangle. This attitude made him appear quite at ease in his surroundings, so I mimicked it. After some minutes, the boy took a small pipe from the pocket of his jacket. He made a thorough examination of it, before putting the stem in his mouth and chomping noisily on it. There was no tobacco in the bowl, or if there was, he had made no attempt to light it. Nevertheless, I took this display as confirmation of his worldliness and was suitably impressed. Later, when the march through the glen brought us to talking, he explained that there was no need to light a pipe to glean the benefits of tobacco. As long as the pipe had been previously used, all that was required was to suck vigorously on it.

  Some time later two men arrived and went into the stables, where I could hear them readying the horses. When the ponies were led out I was disappointed to see that they were not stallions, but the same stocky garrons with heavy low heads that were kept in the villages. At the same time various supplies and tackle were brought out from the kitchens and set down on the cobbles. The boy with the pipe and I were instructed to load up the first pony. The second was left unburdened, so that it might convey any game from the mountain. With the preparations made, a stout woman in a pinafore and apron emerged from the kitchen with a tray of four cups of tea. This was Lachlan Broad’s wife, Mimi, who worked for Lord Middleton during the yellow months. She bid me good morning in a manner which suggested she was not surprised to see me there. I did not normally drink tea as my father thinks it fit only for womenfolk, but not wishing to set myself apart from the group I took the cup offered to me. And indeed, the communal imbibing seemed to beget a sense of fellowship between the four of us. The tea was sweetened with sugar and less unpleasant than I expected. As we drank one of the men addressed me for the first time.

  ‘So you are the Black Macrae’s boy?’