On Carrick Shore

by Alex J. Wright

  “Are ye no’ coming yersel?” asked Mungo.

  “No, thank ye. I’ve found a few places where the figures dinnae add up. I’ll stay and work on for a bit. Mrs Cunningham’s coming in later.”

  “Guid nicht then, sir,” said Tom as he headed for the stairs.

  “Guid nicht. I’ll see ye baith the morn’s morn.”

  *

  “I dinnae like it,” said Mungo as they crossed the bridge. “What were Kennedy and Mr. Cunningham talkin’ aboot? They sounded ower friendly tae me.”

  Tom had been wondering about this himself. He still could not shake off the suspicion that their employer knew all about the smuggling, and perhaps was involved. He was reluctant to share his fears with Mungo however; that would only make his friend more nervous and fearful than ever.

  “Dinnae fash yersel’ the noo,” he said. “Let’s hae a dram an’ forget aboot it.”

  They could hear the babble of voices as they turned in off the High Street to The Plough. Inside, the evening’s revelry was well under way, if not yet in full swing. As their eyes adjusted to the dim, smoky interior and their ears to the hubbub, Tom heard his brother’s voice. “Tom! Ower here!” and they pushed their way over to where David and his companion sat in the inglenook by the fire, nursing tankards of tuppenny ale.

  David called for more ale, greeted Mungo and introduced his friend, a handsome, stocky young man in his early twenties with large, expressive dark eyes, longish black hair and an inquisitive expression.

  “This is Rab, Rab Burns. He farms wi’ his faither oot at Lochlie. My brither Tom and his friend Mungo work at Cunningham’s.”

  The four young men settled down for an evening’s talk. After some initial exchanges about the weather, which they all agreed was potentially disastrous for the harvest, Rab turned to Tom.

  “I hear ye were in Paris. Ye must hae seen some sights there. I envy ye, man. I’ve never been oot o’ Ayrshire.”

  Tom reflected ruefully that all he seemed to have gained in Paris were a broken heart and a ruined reputation, but faced with Rab’s enthusiasm he did his best to describe the ferment of ideas and the excitement of living in Paris.

  “There’s folk wi’ ideas in France, right enough,” he said, “but there’s hardship there tae. The puir hae nothin’, the bourgeois are bled dry wi’ taxes and the aristocrats live off the fat o’ the land. The clergy dinnae help; the heid yins are in thrall tae the rich an’ there’s no’ much Christian charity. But onybody can see there’s changes coming. Pamphlets circulating, talk in the coffee hooses, students reading Voltaire and Rousseau. Something’s gonnae change soon, sooner than here, at any rate,” he added with a smile.

  “An’ French lassies,” said David, nudging Rab. “Tom doesnae say much aboot them at hame, but he’ll maybe tell you.”

  “There’s no’ much tae tell,” said Tom. “I thocht I was in love, I lost her an’ noo I’m back hame wi’ a bad reputation.”

  Mungo snorted gleefully.

  “Ye hae my sympathy,” said Rab. “But dae ye no’ hanker after gaun’ back? I would.”

  “Maybe one day,” said Tom, thinking of the smugglers and wondering if he and Mungo would soon be stowing away on a ship for France or enlisting in the army to get away. He shuddered and changed the subject.

  “Ye farm wi’ ye faither, David says.”

  Rab’s face darkened. “Aye, my faither an’ my brither Gilbert. It’s a hard life. Faither’s no keepin’ well, he’s worn oot. We dae oor best, but I fear this weather’ll finish him an’ we havenae got the money tae improve the farm.”

  “An’ yersel?” asked Tom, sensing a deep melancholy streak in Rab.

  “I want tae get awa’. I tried flax-dressing in Irvine last year but it’s as bad as farming, maybe worse. I’ve educated mysel’, I’m curious aboot the world. There must be somethin’ mair in life forbye thankless drudgery.”

  Mungo stood up abruptly. “I’ll get the next roon’ in,” he said and stomped off to speak to the landlord.

  “Wha stole his scone?” asked David.

  “Hard tae say,” replied Tom. “He’s aye like that. His mood changes faster than the weather, even the weather here. Ye get used tae it.”

  Sure enough, when Mungo came back he was all smiles. “I’ve ordered some whisky wi’ the ale. My shout. Mr Cunningham’s gi’en me a bonus, he’s that pleased wi’ my work.” He turned to Rab. “Ye’ve an eye for the lassies yersel’, I hear,” he said with a leer.

  Rab’s expressive face darkened. “That’s my business,” he said shortly, and turned the talk back to farming. He was anxious to hear about the changes David was making at Barnessie; he was changing gradually from rigs to enclosed fields, and had just bought a new iron plough.

  “Aye, it’s an easier life for them that can afford it,” said Rab. “I’d even enjoy the work if it wasnae sae hard.”

  “Steam power,” said Tom. “That’s the future,” and as the others looked at him, puzzled, he went on, “Aye, if we harnessed the power o’ steam, we could cut doon a lot o’ the drudgery.”

  “Listen tae my wee brither,” jeered David. “Ye’d think he kent somethin’ aboot farmin’, him that never gets his haunds dirty.”

  “No, listen,” said Tom. “When I was in Paris I saw this contraption at the Arsenal. It was a like a big cart wi’ a great muckle boiler on the front, that produced steam tae drive the wheels. A fardier, they cried it, an’ Cugnot, the man that built it, had it moving.”

  “Naw,” said Mungo, “Ye’re haein’ us on.”

  “It’s true,” protested Tom, “I’ve seen it wi’ my ain een.”

  “But did ye see it move?” asked Rab.

  Tom had to confess he hadn’t.

  “It kept bumpin’ intae things, they say, so they’ve parked it in a yard oot o’ the way. But you mark my words, in a hundred years or so they’ll no need horses tae pull carts an’ carriages, it’ll a’ be done by steam.”

  “Aye, an’ naebody’ll need tae work,” said Mungo bitterly. “We’ll a’ live in fine hooses, wear silk an’ dine on roast beef an’ fine wine. Pigs’ll fly an’ a’.” He stood up abruptly.

  “I’m off hame noo. I need tae see tae my mither.”

  Tom looked up in surprise. Mungo didn’t usually show such concern. “Will I come wi’ ye?” he asked, remembering Mungo’s fear of being in the streets alone.

  “Dinnae bother,” said Mungo. “I’m a big boy. I’ll be fine.” But Rab declared that he had to get back to Lochlie and offered to see Mungo round to Mill Street. “I’d like tae hear mair aboot the wine trade,” he said to Mungo with a smile. Tom was surprised and pleased to see Mungo smile back; Rab obviously had charm. They said their goodbyes, leaving the brothers alone.

  “One for the road?” asked David.

  “I’ll get them,” said Tom. When he came back with two reaming tankards David said, “What dae ye think o’ Rab?”

  “I like him fine. He’s got somethin’ aboot him, an’ it’s no’ just his claes.”

  “Aye, I ken what ye mean. He’s a bit o’ a dandy. What colour would ye say yon plaid o’ his was?”

  “I dinnae ken. I’ve never seen ocht like it, no’ even in Paris. It must hae come frae Fleming’s.”

  They drank companionably for a few minutes, then David said, “He’s a queer fish, yon Mungo.”

  “He’s worried.”

  “Aye, there’s somethin’ on his mind, ye can tell. Dae ye ken what it is?”

  Tom thought quickly. The past few days had been difficult. His own worries about the smugglers, Wednesday’s adventure and Mungo’s constant state of near panic had taken their toll. Before he could change his mind, he found himself confiding in David, telling him about their adventures of the past week.

  “So that’s whaur ye were last Friday night,” said his brother. “I heard ye come in, but I thocht ye’d been wi’ a lassie.” Tom smiled ruefully. “And that’s nane o’ my business. But Wednesday – I saw ye come in but I just
thocht ye’d got caught in a downpour. I’d nae idea ye were near drowned.”

  “It was worse for Mungo. He cannae swim.” Tom smiled at the memory.

  “What aboot Mr Cunningham? Is he mixed up in the smuggling?”

  “I dinnae think so, but I cannae be sure. He’s gey friendly wi’ Adam Kennedy these days.”

  “Why dae ye no’ ask him? If he is in on it, ye’ll need tae get awa’ frae here quick.”

  “An’ if he’s no’?”

  “If he’s no’, an’ he finds oot ye kent aboot it and didnae tell him, it’s nearly as bad.”

  Tom saw the wisdom of this; it was what he hadn’t dared admit to himself ever since he had first suspected there was smuggling going on.

  “Anyway,” said David, “ye’ll dae as ye think best. Let’s get hame noo.”

  “You go,” said Tom, making up his mind. “I’ll gang and see if Mr Cunningham’s still in the office. It’s best tae be clear aboot it.”

  But when his brother left he began to have doubts. He sat for a while brooding over another tankard of ale, but eventually reached a decision. He stood up, wrapped his plaid around his shoulders and set off down the High Street towards the bridge.

  It was dark by now, and drizzling with rain. There were few souls about, few lights in the windows and Tom groped his way through the mirk, slithering on the wet cobbles of the bridge. A cold wind was blowing in from the Firth, tugging at his clothes as he entered Cunningham’s yard. There was a single lamp still burning in his employer’s window. Tom swallowed nervously, told himself to be brave and set off up the wet stairs.

  The outer office door was open. He entered and crossed the room quickly before he could change his mind. He knocked gently on the inner door. There was no reply. He knocked again, a little more loudly. Still nothing.

  “He must hae fallen asleep,” thought Tom. Tentatively, he tried the door. It was unlocked, and swung open at his touch.

  “Mr Cunningham,” he began as he stepped inside, then gasped in horror at the sight which met his eyes. Behind his desk, Richard Cunningham lay slumped back in his chair, his eyes staring in shocked surprise, but there was no light in them, any more. There were three great wounds in his chest, still bleeding profusely, and blood everywhere; more, it seemed, than one body could contain.

  Tom, stricken numb with shock and horror, had barely time to register the scene before footsteps pounded up the stairs and he was roughly shouldered out of the way. A great cry went up and turning, Tom saw the black-clad skeletal figure of James Cunningham.

  “What means this?” he roared.

  “Mr Cunningham, I . . .”

  James Cunningham stepped closer and in the flickering lamplight Tom saw him gaze at the mangled body of his brother, his face contorted by grief and rage. He composed himself with difficulty, turned back to Tom and said, coldly furious, “Ye’ll hang for this, laddie.”

  For a few seconds the two men stared at each other, then Tom, seized by blind panic, turned and stumbled down the stairs, across the yard and out on to the quayside, pursued by Cunningham. His heart was pounding and his legs could hardly carry him, but at least Cunningham wasn’t gaining on him.

  As he slipped and stumbled along the quay, he heard the approach of tramping feet and saw the flare of torches up ahead.

  “Watchmen!” cried Cunningham behind him. “Ower here!”

  Tom, caught between the two, could do nothing. Rough hands seized him, a flaming torch was held close to his face and a tall, broad-shouldered man peered at him.

  “What’s going on here?” he demanded.

  James Cunningham, panting, told how he had found Tom standing over the body of his brother. “This young devil murdered my brither!” he cried. “He should hang, now!”

  Tom tried in vain to protest. “I found him. He was already deid,” but his words sounded hollow, even to him.

  The captain of the watch went into the yard and after climbing the stairs to see the grisly scene for himself, came back, shaking his head sorrowfully. “He’s still warm; no lang deid. We’ll need tae tak ye in tae the Tolbooth, laddie.”

  There was nothing to be done. Tom was surrounded by the hefty men of the watch and led away. As he passed Cunningham, he risked a glance at him and in the flaring torchlight thought he caught a glimpse of something that wasn’t grief in the deep, dark eyes.

  The procession, with Tom in its midst, retraced the route he had taken only a short time earlier, but his thoughts were in such a whirl that he barely noticed the cold night mist as he stumbled over the slippery cobblestones. He shivered at the thought of the Tolbooth. Everyone in Ayr knew it but no-one went willingly into that grim place.

  All too soon they arrived beneath the tall forbidding walls. The Tolbooth stood near the river in the centre of the town, an implacable reminder to the citizens of the punishment meted out to wrongdoers. The captain of the watch raised his staff and knocked loudly on the door. Nothing happened for a while but eventually they heard a bolt being drawn back and the face of an ancient gaoler appeared framed in a small window.

  “What’s yer business?” he grumbled.

  “Ye’ve tae tak’ this lad intae custody.”

  The gaoler wheezed and grumbled some more before the heavy door swung open and Tom and his captors were ushered inside. The old man set his candle on a rough deal table in the entrance and looked Tom up and down.

  “Ye’re a fine, fancy laddie an’ nae mistake,” he pronounced. “Name?”

  Tom, struck dumb with fear, eventually managed, “Thomas Boyd.”

  “What’s the charge?” asked the gaoler, turning to the watchmen.

  “Murder. It’s Richard Cunningham, the merchant. His brither found this yin standin’ ower the corpse.”

  “Weel, weel.” The gaoler shook his head, eyed Tom up and down again, then opened a large ledger, took up a quill and began to enter the details.

  “Whaur dae ye bide, lad? Wha’s yer kin?”

  Tom hesitated. He was reluctant to name his family, but they would find out soon enough. He was overcome with fear and shame.

  “I . . . I . . . live at Barnessie House,” he stammered. “My faither is Sir Malcolm Boyd,” he went on, aiming for a firm voice but ending on a squeak.

  There was a stunned silence. The gaoler stared at Tom for what seemed like minutes, then scratched his head sadly.

  “Weel, weel. I doubt yer faither can save ye frae what’s comin’ tae ye.”

  Shaking his head, he took down a large bunch of keys from a nail in the wall, selected one and said, “Come wi’ me.” Holding his candle aloft he led Tom, flanked by two stout watchmen with the captain bringing up the rear, through a maze of gloomy corridors. Arriving at a low door, he stood aside for Tom to enter, then slammed the door shut and turned the key. He and the watchmen disappeared, taking the candle with them.

  Left alone in utter darkness, Tom groped his way around the wet, slimy walls, cursing as he tripped over a bucket. The stench told him what it was used for; also that it had not been emptied for a while. Trying to keep his feet clear of the stinking mess he felt his way to a rough plank which hung from chains about three feet from the floor and sat down warily.

  He tried to work out where he was. There was no light at all and the air was heavy and clammy, so he guessed he was somewhere in the bowels of the building. Gradually he became aware of sounds; a scampering and squeaking which suggested rats – he fancied he could see red eyes glowing at him out of the darkness – then a low moaning from a nearby cell.

  Suddenly, someone cried out in anguish, “Mother!” then all was silent. Moments later, the moaning and groaning started again and continued as Tom stretched out gingerly on the hard plank and tried to control the tumult of his thoughts. His mind was full of pictures of horror; he saw again the twisted body of Richard Cunningham, the gaping wounds, the blood. He wondered if these images would remain with him forever. He could not even make sense of his situation at first, so great was his horror
.

  After the horror came abject fear, which made Tom tremble from head to foot. He was accused of murder! He would be tried and condemned, his family would never recover from the shame, he would hang . . . at this thought, every vestige of self-control fled and he began to sob miserably, great racking sobs which shook his whole being. At length, there was a loud banging on the door of his cell and a voice, he thought it was the gaoler, shouted, “Haud yer wheesht, will ye? There’s mony worse off than you.”

  Gradually, as weariness overtook him, Tom calmed down and tried to sleep, but when he closed his eyes the images of horror started up again and it was not until well into the morning, when some glimmers of daylight in the dim corridor allowed him to gauge the contours of his cell, that he fell at last into a heavy sleep.

  CHAPTER 15

  Saturday September 1st

  The breeze from the sea lifted the skirts of the women and stirred the ribbons on their caps as the crowd on the Borough Muir gathered for the hanging. There was an almost holiday atmosphere as folk called cheerful greetings to friends and neighbours and hoisted children on their shoulders to get a better view of the edifying spectacle of justice being done. The smell of twopenny ale mingled with that of unwashed clothes and the meaty odour of mutton pies.

  The crowd was exceptionally large as the condemned man, a member of one of Ayr’s leading families, had been found guilty of a particularly heinous murder which had profoundly shocked the whole community. Bets were laid: would he make a good end or would he have to be dragged screaming to the gallows?

  Tom stood on the raised platform beside the ladder which in a few moments he would have to climb to be launched into eternity. He could see the stern face of his father, the steadfast gaze of his brother, wishing him courage, and the weeping figures of his mother and Alison, clinging together for support. Further off stood Bob and Jeanie – he hoped Jeanie’s pies had sold well – and Mrs Cunningham, draped in black widow’s weeds, supported by Adam Kennedy. Lastly, he spied the gloomy figure of James Cunningham, wearing an expression of grim satisfaction.