On Carrick Shore

by Alex J. Wright

  He had made discreet enquiries in the first two inns he had tried, hoping to find someone who had business with the Cunninghams, but without success. Most of the drinkers in the dockside taverns were sailors off the ships and while some sailed regularly into Ayr, none showed much interest in the town.

  Bob fought his way to the bar, bought a tankard of twopenny ale and looked round for a seat and company. He found an empty stool at the end of a long table where a group of men were loudly discussing the state of the American war.

  “Reckon it’ll be a’ ower by the end o’ the year,” said one, a thickset youth with straw-coloured hair.

  “An’ a guid thing tae,” said another, who bore a family resemblance to the first. “At least we’ll hae nae mair need tae hide frae the sodgers. I dinnae fancy bein’ forced intae the army.”

  “My brither was pressed intae the navy,” said a third. “An’ since then we’ve had nae word o’ him. The De’il kens whaur he is noo.”

  “Maybe he’ll be hame soon, maybe even in one piece. Wullie, it’s your shout,” said the first speaker.

  “Aye, I’m gaun, I’m gaun. Same again Geordie?”

  “Aye, an’ a wee dram tae chase it. You an’ a’, Joe?” he added, turning to the third man, who grunted his assent. Wullie went off to the bar.

  “Hoo’s business, then?” asked Joe.

  “Business?”

  “Aye, ye ken . . .” Joe touched the side of his nose.

  Geordie glanced round, and noticing Bob at the end of the table, lowered his voice. In spite of the noise in the tavern Bob, straining hard to hear while pretending to devote his attention to his drink and the fiddler, could just make out snatches of the conversation.

  “ . . . A’ tapsalteerie since the boss died . . .”

  “ . . . maybe it’ll be easier noo he’s oot o’ the way . . .”

  “ . . . let me ken if there’s ony work . . .”

  “ . . . Kennedy’s mair or less in charge noo . . .”

  Wullie came back from the bar, bearing a stoup of ale and a small flask of whisky. As he made to refill his companions’ tankards, he bent to whisper in his brother’s ear. Geordie rose and came round the table to stand over Bob, quickly joined by his brother. The fiddler paused and the laughter died away.

  “Bob Balfour, isn’t it?” enquired Geordie in a quietly menacing tone.

  Bob looked up and swallowed. Not for the first time that night he wished he were back in his stable or better, in his warm bed with Jeanie.

  “Wha’ wants tae ken?” he asked with a bravado he did not feel.

  “Never mind. Ye’re Sir Malcolm Boyd’s groom, aren’t ye?” At the mention of the Boyd name, a murmur of interested speculation went round the bar.

  There was no point in denying it. Someone at the bar had obviously recognised him. He nodded. “An’ wha would you be?” he asked, though by now he had a good idea he was talking to Tom’s former colleagues, the McSkimming brothers.

  “That’s nae concern o’ yours,” came the reply. “I’ll ask ye tae step ootside wi’ us. Private business,” he added with a leer for the benefit of the assembled company, who were now taking a keen interest in proceedings. There was a ripple of appreciative laughter.

  “I’d rather finish my ale in peace,” said Bob, turning away from them and raising his tankard. Before he could drink he felt himself hoisted by the elbows. The ale spilled and the tankard rolled onto the floor.

  To a chorus of “That’s it, Geordie, gi’e the wee bauchle what he deserves,” he was lifted off his feet by the two McSkimmings, carried through the door and dumped onto the wet cobbles of the quayside.

  The rain poured down relentlessly as the fiddle music started up again inside. Bob could hear the steady clinking of the ships’ masts and in the dim light from the tavern he saw the jeering faces of the McSkimming brothers above him. Geordie had a knife in his hand.

  “What’s yer business here?” he demanded.

  “Nae business. I was just haein’ a drink.”

  “Weel, noo, it seems tae me that if a guid, God-fearin’ laddie is let oot drinkin’ by his sonsie, sharp-tongued besom o’ a wife,” here both brothers chuckled gleefully, “Aye, we’ve heard aboot your Jeanie. If she lets ye oot, there must be a reason. We’d never seen ye here afore, so we speired wha ye might be. Very interesting, we thocht. Sir Malcolm Boyd’s groom. An’ it seems tae me ye were takin’ a great interest in oor conversation.”

  “Mair nor in the fiddle music,” added his brother.

  “So I would ca’ that spying, would you no, Wullie?”

  “Aye.”

  “An’ ye ken what they dae wi’ spies, don’t ye Bob?”

  Bob did not reply. He was miserably aware of the cold rain seeping through his clothes and the knife in Geordie McSkimming’s hand. He looked up to see Geordie nodding solemnly as he ran a finger slowly along the blade of the knife. Within the tavern the noise and laughter were again in full swing.

  “Naebody tae see or hear,” said Geordie silkily. “A quick knife in the ribs an’ we dump ye in the harbour. Wi’ a few stanes in yer pocket ye’ll just disappear.”

  Bob closed his eyes. As he waited for the blow, thoughts crowded into his head. Would he be dead before he hit the water or would he drown? He didn’t fancy either option. What would happen to the family? He was sure now that Kennedy and the McSkimmings were behind Richard Cunningham’s death, but what good would that do young Tom? Most of all, he wished he could see Jeanie one more time. How would she manage the cooking without him?

  The seconds stretched out agonisingly as he waited, aware of the sharp wet cobbles digging into his knees and almost welcoming the pain, which meant he was still alive.

  At length there came a wicked chuckle. “Aye, it warms my heart tae see a man in fear for his life, but maybe no’ this time.” Rough hands seized him and hauled him to his feet. He opened his eyes and found himself inches from the pock-marked face and beery breath of Geordie McSkimming.

  “See here, Bob,” he said. “This is what we’re gaun tae dae. Wullie here is fair itching tae see the last o’ ye, but fortunately for you I’m the boss here. I’m willing tae forget ye stuck yer lang neb intae what disnae concern ye, but only this time, mind. You’re tae gang back tae yon fancy black-haired gowk an’ remind him he’s got a date wi’ the hangman, an’ Wullie an’ me, we’ll be in the front row tae watch him dangle. Eh, Wullie?”

  His brother looked disappointed that Bob was going to get away, but chortled with glee at the prospect of Tom Boyd on the end of a rope.

  “An’ if ye ever show yer face doon here again, ye ken what’ll happen tae ye,” went on Geordie, with a flourish of the knife. “Awa’ wi ye noo.”

  Bob was released from his grasp with a violent shove which sent him sprawling on the ground again. The two brothers looked on mockingly as he struggled to his feet, his heart pounding as he slipped and slid on the greasy cobbles.

  “Mind ye dinnae fa’ in the water, Bob,” jeered the younger McSkimming.

  *

  Two hours later, Bob was sitting by the range in the kitchen, wrapped in a blanket, sipping a hot toddy and being fussed over by Jeanie. He told himself that if he could just stop shaking he would feel better. He glanced up at Tom, who was pacing back and forward between the big table and the range.

  “Ye’re sure it was the McSkimmings?” he asked.

  “Oh aye. Wullie an’ Geordie. They ca’d each ither by name, didnae try tae hide it. An’ they mentioned Cunningham’s warehoose and Adam Kennedy. I’m just sorry I wasnae able tae find oot mair. What are ye daein’, wumman?” he winced as Jeanie pulled the blanket aside and applied a foul-smelling cloth to his left knee.

  “Haud yer wheesht, man, it’s only a mustard poultice. Yer knee’s the size o’ a fitba’. Ye’ll need tae keep the poultice on the nicht if ye want tae be able tae work the morn.”

  Bob sighed, but submitted himself to her ministrations.

  Tom felt once again that h
e wasn’t being grateful enough.

  “Hoo can I thank ye, Bob?” he asked, shamefaced. “Ye’ve risked your life an’ damn near got yersel’ killed.”

  “Weel, I’m still here, thank the Lord,” said Bob, “an’ I’m pretty sure the smugglers are behind it a’.”

  “What exactly did they say again?”

  “I heard Geordie sayin’ ‘It’ll be easier noo he’s oot o’ the way’ and ‘Kennedy’s in charge noo.’ Then they warned me never tae gang near them again.” He thought it best not to transmit the message about the hanging.

  “I’ve got tae dae something,” muttered Tom. “I cannae just wait here kicking my heels till Saturday. I need tae gang back tae the warehoose.”

  “But ye’re no tae gang near Ayr,” said Jeanie. “If they catch ye they’ll no need tae wait till Saturday tae string ye up.”

  “Jeanie . . .” began Bob.

  “No, she’s right,” said Tom. “I’ll just need tae mak’ sure they dinnae catch me.”

  “Dinnae tell us ony mair,” said Jeanie, “Then we cannae let on. I dinnae fancy tellin’ lies tae yer faither. That’s enough talk noo, it’s gone midnight. Awa’ tae yer bed, Tom, an’ let me see tae my man.”

  CHAPTER 19

  Wednesday September 5th

  Overnight, the rain cleared and the next day dawned bright and fair. Tom, confined again to the house, tried not to be annoyed by Mungo’s cheerful whistling as he set off for the fields with David, who was bent on harvesting some potatoes and turnips as they waited hopefully for a spell of dry weather to go on with the haymaking.

  Sir Malcolm took pity on his son and invited him along on his morning ride. “Fresh air’ll dae ye guid; ye’re lookin’ a mite peely-wally,” he said. “We’ll no gang far, we cannae risk ye bein’ seen.” Tom thought of his plans for later in the day. He was going to betray his father’s trust, and hoped fervently he would not bring further shame on the family.

  As they entered the stables to saddle up they met Bob, who was limping slightly but otherwise none the worse for his ordeal of the previous evening. “The swellin’s gone doon,” he confirmed. “Thon mustard poultices fair stink but they did the job.”

  Father and son set off down back lanes past Alloway and on towards the coast. They stopped on the hill overlooking Dunure and its ruined castle on the cliff. Tom was reminded of the day he’d arrived back from France and stopped on the cliffs near here, only a few short weeks before. So much had happened since he’d first looked out over the waters of the Firth, still and deep today in the sunshine. Away to his left Ailsa Craig stood out bright and clear and he wondered if he’d ever see its granite cliffs again. It didn’t seem fair; the brightness of the day was a mocking obscenity to one facing his doom.

  Timor mortis conturbat me, he thought. He shivered and looked across at his father. Sir Malcolm, comfortably astride his horse, was studying the castle ruins closely.

  “It’s a shame they’re just letting it gang tae ruin,” he observed. “It was a fine building in its day. Ye ken they entertained Queen Mary there back in the auld days? Ye can still see, yonder, whaur the great ha’ was. But aye, it’s a sorry sicht noo, an’ no safe, I’ll wager. Nae wonder they’re a’ building modern places like Culzean.”

  “Or like yer ain hoose. Barnessie’s no’ exactly a keep.”

  “Aye, that tae. There’s nae need for yon tall castles built for defence ony mair. Times hae changed for the better . . . in some ways” added his father, thinking of Tom’s plight. “Ye ken what happened here?”

  “Somethin’ aboot roastin’ an abbot?” Tom’s recollection of old tales told him by Jeanie was rather hazy – there had been so many of them.

  “Aye, back in 1570. They tortured the abbot, really the commendator of Crossraguel, doon there in the castle dungeons.”

  “The way Jeanie telt it, they roasted him on a spit,” said Tom. “She used tae tell me tales at bedtime tae help me sleep, but I had bad dreams for weeks efter thon yin.”

  “Jeanie aye likes the bloodiest version o’ the auld tales, but it wasnae quite like that. They just toasted his feet a bit tae mak’ him gi’e up his claim tae the commendatorship, an’ he survived, though he never walked again. Forbye, he was nae holy man or sacrificial lamb. It was a’ aboot a money feud between the Kennedys an’ the Stewarts.” Sir Malcolm sighed. “Weel, Tom, it’s nearly dinner-time. We’d best be heading back.”

  Somewhat reluctantly, they turned their horses away from the shining waters of the Firth and towards Barnessie.

  *

  Meanwhile, Alison was tidying the shelves in the back shop, trying to get Tom out of her mind. She had parted with him in anger on Sunday and was now tormented by the thought that she might never see him again. That was more than she could bear. She resolved to swallow her pride and ride out to Barnessie the next day.

  Just then she heard the shop door open. “I’ll be wi’ ye richt awa’” she called. She smoothed her apron and patted her hair before going through to the front.

  “Guid day tae ye, mistress,” said Bessie Gibney.

  “Bessie! I’m pleased tae see ye. Hae ye brocht the washing back?” For Alison had been true to her word and sent business Bessie’s way.

  “I hae that,” said Bessie, indicating a large basket of sheets on the floor by her side, from which rose a sweet smell of herbs.

  “Thank ye Bessie. Ye’ve done a guid job. Noo, what dae I owe ye?”

  She paid Bessie, who lingered hesitantly by the counter, nervously plucking at her shawl with rough red hands.

  “Can I dae ocht for ye, Bessie?” asked Alison. “Ye look worried.”

  Bessie hesitated, then, making up her mind, she said, “Ye mind when we talked aboot gaun tae the Kirk Session . . .”

  “Aye . . .”

  “Aboot my weans’ faither . . .”

  “Aye . . .” repeated Alison in what she hoped was a non-committal but encouraging tone.

  “Weel, I was thinkin’ . . .”

  “Dae ye want me tae come wi’ ye?”

  Relief flooded Bessie’s face. “Would ye, mistress? Only I’m feart tae gang masel’.”

  “Of course I’ll come. But what made ye change yer mind?”

  “Promise ye’ll no tell onybody?”

  “That depends on what it is . . .” began Alison, but seeing Bessie’s expression darken she went on, “but I’m mair or less sure ye can tell me in confidence. Come through tae the back shop and we’ll talk aboot what tae dae for the best.”

  She led the way, settled Bessie by the big table with a glass of ale and sat down opposite her.

  “Noo, tell me what’s troublin’ ye. It’ll be just between oorsels.”

  Bessie took a gulp of ale, swallowed nervously and began.

  “I had a visit frae him . . . ye ken wha it is . . .”

  “James Cunningham,” supplied Alison, as it seemed Bessie could not bring herself to say the name.

  “Aye, him. He’s never affectionate wi’ me, I dinnae expect that, but this time, though he was civil enough he frightened me. I’d never seen him like that afore.”

  “What did he dae?” asked Alison apprehensively, the memory of her own encounter with James Cunningham in that very room fresh in her mind.

  “Dae? He didnae dae ocht. Just informed me, cold as ice, that I would get nae mair money oot o’ him for my brats. As if it was a’ my fault, when it was him that forced me,” cried Bessie, beginning to sob.

  Alison waited quietly while the girl groped for her apron and scrubbed furiously at her face and eyes. Gradually the sobs subsided, she wiped her face once last time and managed a watery smile.

  “What wi’ that and a’ the business I’ve lost through standin’ in the kirk for my sins,” – she fairly spat the word out – “I’ll soon hae nothin’ left. I dinnae care what happens tae me,” she added bitterly, “but there’s my weans an’ my sister. I cannae let them starve. So if ye’d help me, I’ll gang tae the session an’ tell them what a cold
-blooded snake they hae in their midst.”

  Alison stood up.

  “We’ll gang directly tae the minister, for Cunningham’ll hae cronies on the session. We’d maybe no’ get a fair hearing.”

  “What . . . noo?” asked Bessie, beginning to tremble.

  “Richt awa’,” said Alison firmly. She took her plaid from its peg. “I’ll just tell my faither whaur we’re gaun. He’s oot the back. Dinnae fash yersel’,” she added, seeing Bessie’s stricken look. “He’ll no hae heard us. When he’s tendin’ his kail he’s deaf tae a’ else.”

  *

  Tom whiled away the afternoon sitting under the apple tree in the garden, idly turning the pages of the Scots Magazine. He had decided to slip away to Ayr when dusk fell and the family was finishing supper. He still had some hours to get through and mixed excitement and apprehension made it impossible to concentrate on reading. He was grateful when Kate appeared, sent by Jeanie to pick blackberries for a pie. She sat down beside Tom and began to plague him with questions.

  “What’s it like inside the Tolbooth?” she asked blithely.

  Tom shivered at the memory of that grim place. “Ye dinnae want tae ken.”

  “Are there rats?”

  “There are rats. It’s filthy and damp and dark an’ I dinnae want tae talk aboot it, seein’ as I’ll soon be back there.”

  Kate reddened, remembering.

  “Sorry,” she muttered, “I didnae mean tae . . .”

  “Never mind.”

  There was an uneasy silence.

  “Tom?”

  “Aye?”

  “What’ll happen on Saturday?”

  Tom had been wondering about that himself.

  “I dinnae really ken,” he said. “I suppose they’ll come for me here if I dinnae gi’e myself up, then there’ll be a trial at the next assizes, an’ then . . .”

  “But if ye’re no guilty? They dinnae condemn innocent folk, dae they?”