by Gian Bordin
14
Helen watched Andrew leave the entrance hall with the constable. Every cell in her body cried out to rush after him. With difficulties she restrained herself and went slowly outside to see him disappear where High Street turned slightly to the right. She was alone! Knew nobody in this town. What was she going to do now? Rising panic gripped her. What if they throw Andrew in jail? What if her father tracks her down while he’s kept there? What if he never comes out again? Don’t they hang horse thieves? It took all her willpower not to run after him. Dismayed she looked at the bouquet of white flowers in her left hand and tears blurred her vision. Then she heard again his voice: "Helen, remember, you’re a MacGregor!" She took a deep breath. Her man had reminded her of the pride of her clan! She must not panic now. She owed it to him. Resolutely, she pushed her chin forward and reentered the inn.
She was hardly through the door, when the innkeeper rushed to her and exclaimed: "My dear lady, your continued presence will harm the reputation of this God-fearing establishment. You must leave right away."
Helen’s first reaction was to tell him in no uncertain terms that she wasn’t going to do anything of the sort, that her husband would be cleared promptly of any wrongdoing. But she also instantly realized that in all likelihood the horse had been stolen by the MacGregors of Balquhidder, and therefore Andrew would be kept in jail as the prime suspect, unless he could prove his innocence. And her cousins would deny selling it to him. The curse of the MacGregors catching up with her!
Her thoughts turned to what she must do now. Wouldn’t it be better to find a less conspicuous inn where she could more easily hide with the horses? The innkeeper would have to attest that he ordered her to leave. And, without the evidence, wouldn’t they have to let Andrew go, and then they could flee? Maybe she should even try to get rid of the stallion. If she could replace it with another black horse, Andrew would be in the clear. Scheming like this, she changed her mind and meekly acquiesced to the innkeeper’s demand, asking him how much they owed and settling the account.
Less than half an hour later she rode the brown mare out of the inn’s yard, the black stallion in tow. At first she was at a loss of where to go. Almost without thinking she guided the horse down High Street where Andrew had gone with the constable. But soon her scheming resumed. She must find a place, somewhere out of the way.
A quarter mile down the road, she entered Bun’s Wynd. What if Andrew isn’t imprisoned and comes back and she’s gone? How were they going to find each other again? On impulse, she turned around, retracing her steps. Maybe she should secretly watch the inn until evening. But where could she leave the horses? Then she remembered passing a cobbler at the beginning of Bun’s Wynd. She could ask him to repair the mare’s saddle while she waited. Then it wouldn’t be suspicious if she stuck around. In the meantime she could keep an eye on the inn. Suddenly, she was glad of Andrew’s foresight to give her most of his cash. It made things easier not to also have to worry about money.
She begged, and the cobbler relented, promising to have the saddle fixed by six o’clock. He agreed to keep both horses in his backyard, while she went shopping down High Street.
Wrapping herself in Andrew’s riding coat, with a big kerchief hiding her hair and much of her face, she walked up and down High Street, keeping an eye on the inn. Time seemed to crawl. Occasionally, a bout of panic threatened to take hold of her again, but she fought it bravely. From the little bit she had seen of the city earlier that day, she recalled boats plying up and down the River Clyde to the south of Saltmarket Street. So somewhere there must be a river port with inns for sailors where she could hide if Andrew didn’t return by six o’clock.
The bell of the nearby church steeple struck five times. She had just started going up High Street again, when she briefly looked over her shoulder and saw the constable, accompanied by two other policemen briskly march up the street. Sudden fright almost paralyzed her, but she tried to reassure herself that he would hardly recognize her. She ducked into a narrow alley between two houses, waited for them to pass, and then followed at a distance.
The constable entered the inn and came out again after a few minutes, the innkeeper closely behind him. The latter pointed down High Street. For an instant, Helen feared that he was pointing her out to the constable. The two talked for a short while, upon which the constable saluted stiffly and left hurriedly. They had come to fetch the stallion. So Andrew had been locked up in the tolbooth, was her devastating conclusion. Although she had expected this, now that it was a certainty, she felt suddenly weak and weepy. They will now also be on the lookout for her and the horse. With that her resolve hardened again.
She quickly returned to the cobbler, whose apprentice was just saddling the mare. After thanking and paying him, she skirted the city’s periphery by various detours until she got to the Clyde. About a quarter mile upriver she saw a number of small vessels berthed along the river and a row of large, stark, and almost windowless buildings about fifty to a hundred feet back from the water. These must be warehouses. So this was the port.
Near the primitive wharf, she asked a little boy where she could find an inn and accepted his offer to guide her. Pointing to a two-storey building behind the warehouses, the boy said: "Lady, that’s her down there."
The White Heron might once have lived up to its name. Now its outside walls were blackened from coal smoke, the name on its shield hardly legible. But what raised her apprehension even more was the crowd of men loitering in front of the inn, a few in sailors’ uniforms, others in soiled, shabby workmen’s clothing, some with rips or holes at the elbows and knees. Periodically one or several entered the inn or came out swaggering, not too steady on their feet. Whenever the door opened, loud singing and bawling poured into the street.
"Boy, is there no back entrance?"
"Yes, lady, you have to go around these houses there." The boy pointed to an alley a few feet back.
"Can you guide me? I’ll give you a penny."
"Sure, lady," he said with a broad grin.
He led her through a close, no more than six feet wide, between two adjoining rows of tenement houses perpendicular to the street, so typical of Glasgow’s compact building layout. The stink from the garbage and human excrement was overwhelming. Helen had second thoughts. She would have liked to turn around, except that the alley was too narrow for that. She had no choice but to follow the boy. At its end they came to an open space. The boy ran to a wooden gate, opened it, and shouted: "Lady, come in quick!"
Helen rode her mare into a small, neat courtyard, enclosed by a high wooden fence. Along its northern wall was a carefully tended flower bed, full of yellows, pinks, and blues, bathed in the last rays of the sun. The contrast with the dreary alley was so stark that Helen’s mouth remained wide open—it was like a little corner of paradise in a mud of hell.
"Lady, will you give me my penny now?"
Dismounting, Helen couldn’t help laughing. She got several coins from her skirt pocket and gave the boy two pennies. He bowed deeply and exclaimed: "Thank you, lady, if you ever need help, just ask for Owen, and I’ll be at your service."
She smiled and answered: "I will."
The boy skipped playfully through the gate and closed it from outside. Enchanted, Helen went over to the flowers, kneeling down beside a small rose bush that was covered with dainty, pink blooms. She smelled their delicate aroma.
"They smell nice, don’t they? … What can I do for you, lass?"
Startled, Helen turned at the sound of a deep woman’s voice.
The speaker, a plump woman in her late forties or early fifties, stood in the doorway of what must be the kitchen, her hands on her broad hips, beaming at her.
"Yes, madam. I need lodging." The woman’s booming laughter drowned out her last words.
"Madam, ha ha. Just call me Rose; that’s what they call me here on account of my flowers. So you need a room to stay… um, but pardon me asking, but why here of all places. This is a sail
ors’ place. No self-respecting lady’d ever set foot within half a mile unless she’s trying to make some easy money … or running away from the law. Which is it, lass?"
Helen couldn’t help taking an instant liking to this boisterous woman with the laughing, kind eyes, and a soft heart for flowers. The open directness of her question deserved a straight answer. "Yes, Rose. It’s the latter."
"What kind of trouble, lass?"
Helen explained what happened.
"You’re safe here. We can easily hide that beautiful horse of yours. Your trouble is to keep the sailors away from your bed. They’re a wild bunch and think a young thing like you only ventures into these parts for one thing."
Helen felt her cheeks getting hot.
"So, don’t you show your pretty face in the tavern. You eat with me in the kitchen. In fact, there’s a spare room next to mine. You sleep there."
"Oh, Rose, I thank you. I must admit, when I saw the crowd in front of the inn, I got scared and wanted to turn."
"How did you find the back entrance? … Ah, it must have been Owen. He’s a good lad, that one. Too bad he has to grow up in this hell hole," she muttered, more to herself than to Helen.
She showed Helen to a room and quickly excused herself that she had to look after her regular patrons. The room was tiny. Helen opened its small window that looked directly onto the flower bed. Then she went outside again to look after the horses. She reminded herself to ask Rose for hay and oats. For a while, she lingered around the flowers, touching one, smelling another, delighted by this unexpected treasure. And then it hit her again. Andrew was in jail. On her wedding day. It was as if somebody didn’t want their marriage to become reality. She stared at the flowers. Suddenly they had lost their charm.
Later on, sitting at the window, she felt the need to think of what to she should do. Making plans would calm her anxiety, would give her a sense of purpose, a feeling of gaining control over her life. Andrew had instructed her to get a solicitor tomorrow if he didn’t return. But tomorrow was Sunday, and she doubted that he would be released then. Didn’t it need the signature of a magistrate to free him, and they would observe the Sabbath even more religiously to set a God-fearing example for lesser people? Nor would the offices of Jarvis and Sons reopen until Monday. So that had to wait. In the meantime she might as well reconnoiter the city, find out where the offices of that firm and the tolbooth were.
It was past eight before Rose called her for supper. The food was simple, a bit on the greasy side, but tasty.
"Lass, I don’t make you out. You speak a refined English, wear nice clothes like a lady, and ride expensive horses, but somehow I don’t see you in a castle or fancy house. Where do you come from?"
"I come from the Highlands. From Loch Tay." Helen was reluctant to say more.
"Ah, I see. A laird’s daughter. That’s it. I’ve seen them strutting around on Trongate. Most are a haughty bunch that fancy themselves better than us commoners."
Helen tried to visualize the more prosperous tacksmen’s daughters, like the McNabbs from Killin, strutting around town. They too had always looked down on her kind. She smiled in spite of her worries. "Yes, I know what you mean… My parents aren’t well-to-do. They can just barely scrape together a living."
"So where do the nice dresses come from?"
"I bought them from an innkeeper’s wife in Stirling," Helen chuckled, "because my husband thought that my simple petticoat and little jacket weren’t ladylike enough."
"He’s right… Tell me about that husband of yours, or aren’t you married yet? Don’t deny that you’re running away with him!"
Helen chuckled again. "Rose, I like you. Yes, we’re running away, in fact, we plan to run all the way to America. And yes, we’re married," adding in a murmur: "Just today."
She fingered her new wedding band absentmindedly, while her thoughts drifted to Andrew. When will I see him again? Slowly, tears began to form at the corner of her eyes.
Rose got up and patted her shoulder. "Poor lass! Don’t worry! He’ll soon be free again. You just go and rest now! And lock that door of yours securely. If a sailor tries to come too close, yell, and I’ll take care of him. And if I’m not around and he won’t let you be, I’ve another little trick for you. Just knee him in the crotch with all your might. I promise that’ll fix him for good." She rolled her eyes fiercely. In spite of her grief, Helen had to smile.
For a long time, she was too strung up to find her sleep. Her thoughts went in circles. Twice she dozed off, only to wake up startled and disoriented, searching for Andrew next to her and then remembering what happened. Finally, she cried herself into an exhausted sleep.
* * *
When Helen wanted to go into the city early on Sunday, Rose told her that it would be unwise to do that while all God-fearing citizens attended church and that she must take Owen along as her guide. So early afternoon, Owen and Helen walked hand-in-hand in the shadows of the tall, impressive stone buildings of the city, up Bridgegate Street, King Street, occasionally dipping into a close between buildings. They explored the wide Trongate in both directions and walked around the tolbooth, carefully studying it both from the front and the back.
The tall, five-storey building gave her the shivers. Its grey, hewn stone, its little turrets at the corners protruding past the roof, its slender steeple that towered over it at the corner of High Street and the Trongate, and the knowledge that Andrew was incarcerated behind these walls, made it look forbidding. Owen showed her where the prisoners entered the jail through the solid iron door with its small wicket at eye level. She scanned the narrow, barred windows of the prison cells and wondered behind which one Andrew was held, whether he had been slapped into hand and leg irons, and what he might be doing right now.
The fortress seemed impregnable, equally impossible to enter as to leave without the permission of the jailers. Would she be allowed to visit? But would it be wise to do so as long as she still had the black stallion? She really needed to find a way of getting rid of him and get another black or almost black horse instead. The innkeeper of The Good Shepherd saw her leave with a black stallion, so the authorities would know that also. Maybe Rose might know how to go about that.
Owen’s suggestion that they go back to The White Heron pulled her out of her ruminations. She asked him to show her the House of Jarvis and Sons. On their return, he led her through more of the narrow alleys between the tenements, warning her to beware of chamber pots unexpectedly being emptied from the windows above.
Helen liked the lively, intelligent boy. Within one afternoon, she got a real education about city street life and the various do’s and don’t’s for surviving there without attracting the attention of the police, how to get from one main street to another through narrow passages and open spaces in the back of the houses.
They slipped back into the inn by the rear entrance. Helen gave Owen a sixpence coin and thanked him for his interesting company. The boy’s eyes lit up with pleasure.
At supper time, she questioned Rose about replacing the stallion with another black horse.
"Leave that to me, lass," Rose assured her. "I make inquiries. I guess you’re in a hurry… It might cost you a bit of money."
* * *
Monday morning, wearing the dark gray jacket over the white blouse and skirt, Helen visited the house of Jarvis and Sons on Saltmarket Street. Mr. Jarvis junior received her and within the hour she was directed to the nearby offices of Thomas MacIntyre and Company, Barristers and Solicitors, where she was questioned at length by John Grant. He promised to visit Andrew promptly. He was somewhat taken aback when she refused to tell him where she was lodging and instead only promised to check for news at his office at least once a day.
She was back in his office on Tuesday morning. John Grant had seen Andrew and talked to him, as well as to the provost’s clerk.
"Did my husband have a message for me, Mr. Grant?"
"Yes, he said that he was treated well and urged you no
t to worry. But to be frank, Mrs. Campbell, things do not look good at all. Your husband suspects that James Drummond from whom he bought the horse did not get it by lawful means—"
Helen nodded in agreement.
"—and without a receipt there is no way to prove his innocence."
"And James Drummond would deny having sold the horse to him. I know my Balquhidder cousins."
John Grant raised his eyebrows in surprise. "You are related to them?"
"Yes, they are cousins of my mother."
"That won’t help either. We better keep that quiet."
"Can’t I testify?"
"The trouble is that your husband was close to here when the horse was stolen which puts him within easy reach of the scene of the crime."
"But I can testify that he bought the horse in Balquhidder. We both rode the mare from Killin."
"Where you present when the deal was struck?"
Helen hesitated for a second. "No."
"So the provost could claim that your husband left the horse with James Drummond and simply picked it again up on the way through there." As an afterthought, he added: "Anyway, as his wife your testimony would not count for much."
Helen’s spirits sank a bit more.
"As I said, things don’t look good. The clerk intimated that his Honor has already convicted your husband, at least in his mind. All he is waiting for is to get confirmation from Lord Hugh’s stable master that the horse in question is theirs. Apparently, he was rather upset that it disappeared and sees this as another proof of your husband’s guilt. It now also implicates you. For this reason I urge you to let me arrange for the horse to be delivered to the authorities. We can easily convince them that you complied with their order the moment you heard about it. So at least you will be in the clear."