Читать книгу The Song in the Green Thorn Tree - James William Barke - Страница 15

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In March the Reverend John Russell of Kilmarnock and the Reverend Alexander Moodie of Riccarton disputed their parish boundaries. At least the dispute now came to a head, for they had been bickering and snarling about the boundaries for a long time.

Black Jock was, of course, the holy terror of Kilmarnock. The wabsters’ wives there, when they heard Black Jock coming on his rounds, would gather their brats from the street and retire behind a snecked door.

Jock never sallied forth among his flock without his sturdy thorn stick; and he was not above applying it vigorously to the back and sides, head and shoulders of any of his flock who occasioned him any offence—real or imagined.

The Reverend Moodie, on the other hand, for all his Auld Licht sententiousness, had some fragments of laughter about him. There were times when he not only enjoyed a mild joke but could take part in one himself.

It is true that Moodie had always had a healthy respect for Black Jock. The Kilmarnock priest, well supported on his sturdy shanks, and his great barrel of a chest giving him a bull-like air, was an awe-inspiring figure. But when mounted on his saddle-backed mare and his great feet hanging low in the stirrups, Moodie could never resist a quiet smile at the corners of his mouth.

And so, coming home from a Presbytery meeting one afternoon and jogging down the long High Street of Kilmarnock, Moodie withdrew the straw from his mouth and, on an irresistible impulse, applied it to the flank of Black Jock’s mare.

Now the mare considered it indignity enough to have to bear the dead weight of her master without having to submit to the indignity of being tickled with a straw. She had recourse to a series of antics that almost unseated Jock. The children laughed delightedly and the adults grinned broadly.

Black Jock had caught a glimpse of Moodie’s straw. But for the time and place he would have dismounted and given Moodie the fright of his life. As it was, he drew his heavy eyebrows an inch lower—and as far as Moodie was concerned they remained lowered.

Now, called to settle the dispute before the magistrates of the town, Moodie and Russell faced each other in an atmosphere of violent animosity.

Moodie may have been the aggressor in so far as he jocularly undermined the dignity of his colleague in the High Street; but to-day the tables were turned and Russell came into the attack like a wounded boar.

At Mossgiel, Robert had heard something of the preliminary bouts between the worthy herds and, being in the mood to relish any circumstance that would discomfit them, rode the eight miles into Kilmarnock to enjoy the fun.

He had formed the habit when attending the Kilmarnock market-day of dropping into the howff of Robert Muir, the wine-merchant, and they had become good friends.

“Damnit,” said Muir, “if you’re for the meeting, Robert, I think I’ll leave the place to the lass here and take a step down with you. It’ll be grand entertainment. Black Jock’s ready to trail the guts out o’ Moodie: so they tell me. Fair raised he is, and dunching mad like a bull.”

“Aye, come on,” urged Robin.

The fun was indeed glorious. So glorious, in fact, it broke every standard of Christian conduct known to the West.

Ultimately, under some sharp cross-examination from Moodie, Russell lost his temper completely, and his maniacal bellowings could be heard all over the town. Folks in the court-room began to tremble.

It had been bad enough when Russell had shouted “villain” and Moodie had shaken a lean fist and countered with “hypocrite.”

“Liar!” now roared Jock. “Liar! you damned lump o’ Satan. I’ll teach you to shak’ your fist in my face. You’re a liar, sir: a treble and quadruple liar when you stand there and threep down my throat that I baptised in your parish——”

Finally, just as Russell was about to make a physical attack on Moodie, several magistrates rushed in between the disputants and brought the ridiculous and unseemly proceedings to an abrupt closure.

Robert and Muir returned to the howff feeling richly rewarded. They were joined by Tam Samson, the worthy Kilmarnock seedsman and noted sportsman.

Tam was about the most kenspeckle figure in the town, a great wag and wit and mocker of the holy high-flyers. Truth to tell, Tam was something of a militant agnostic, and, though not a weaver, shared many of their more radical opinions.

“By God, Mr. Burns,” he cried, clapping Robin heartily on the shoulder, “I’ll warrant you hae gotten some inspiration the day. Damned, but I’m disappointed though. They should hae let Black Jock and Moodie settle the dispute physically.”

Robin said: “He would hae finished Moodie—he’s by far the older man. But you’re right, Tam—the twa best herds in a’ the West howling at each other like bluidy tigers would be inspiration enough for any poet. Don’t worry—the lines are clinking in the back o’ my mind even now. I’ll be back in Killie next market-day wi’ a swatch o’ good rhyme for your entertainment.”

Samson was a red-faced, burly man, who, for all his girth, was extremely agile on his feet. He had a ready tongue and a heart of gold. Robin liked him immensely—much in the way he liked John Rankine and Willie Muir of the Tarbolton Mill.

Robert Muir, on the other hand, was of the same age as Robin. He was thin, pale and of an intellectual cast. He liked an argument, loved poetry and women and was radical in his politics. The pair had taken to each other from the moment they had met.

Muir said: “When you think that Moodie and Russell are the kind o’ men elected by the flocks—and the auld rams of the flocks at that—there’s something to be said for patronage.”

“There’s everything to be said for patronage. If it wasna for the lairds there wouldna be a New Light minister in Ayrshire.”

“Aye ... damnit, Mr. Burns, but New Licht or Auld Licht they’re damned kittle craws to hae aboot the place. A roaring bull like Black Jock’s no’ civilised and hardly decent. But some o’ your New Licht billies are too mealy-mouthed to say boo till a goose.”

And so they argued and debated over their drink; and more cronies came in and Robin was introduced as the rhyming farmer from Machlin-way.

The Kilmarnock men were different from the Machlin men as both differed from the men of Tarbolton and the men of Ayr. But the men with whom Robin became friendly had this in common: all of them had intelligence enough to know how life should be enjoyed. They were honest, good-natured and fond of good company. Almost to a man they were fond of the song and ballad literature of their district: none were tainted with the canting hypocrisy of the Auld Licht fundamentalists.

Robin’s visits to Kilmarnock were not so frequent as he would have wished, but when he visited the weaving town—as when he visited Auld Ayr—he made the most of his time.

And soon there was a core of worthy men there who welcomed his visits and provided an ever-ready chorus to his latest swatch of verse.

When he returned to Robert Muir’s with his satire, The Twa Herds, he was immediately besieged for copies.

Tam Samson roared his delight at what he considered the two best stanzas.

“What herd like Russell telled his tale? His voice was heard thro’ muir and dale; he kend the Lord’s sheep, ilka tail, o’er a’ the height; an’ telled gin they were sick or hale at the first sight.

“He fine a mangy sheep could scrub; or nobly swing the gospel club; or New-Light herds could nicely drub and pay their skin; or hing them o’er the burning dub or heave them in.”

Afterwards Robin enjoyed a quiet meal with his host.

“You know, Robin,” said Muir, his eyes flashing, “when I stand ben there and hear you read your verses I feel as if I were being liberated—as if something in me wanted to take wings and fly—no, soar, soar away into the light o’ the sun. I canna find words to describe what I mean. Why the hell should you be wrestling atween plough-stilts? You were meant for something better. Damnit, Rab, you’ve gotten a head on you there’s no’ the equal in Ayrshire. No: I’m serious. I’m no’ the man to flatter onybody: I’m telling you the truth. And that’s Tam Samson’s opinion too. And between you and me, there’s no’ a shrewder man in Killie than Tam Samson. There’s naebody deceives Tam.”

“You’ve all been more than kind to me. But, Robert lad, a man canna live by rattlin’ down the rhymes on a sheet o’ paper. They lighten the load o’ life; but they don’t fill the wame.”

“They don’t—worse luck. But there must be some way, Rab—there must be some way you can earn your corn without the drudgery o’ a tack o’ sour land. But for the minute I just canna think what road you could turn to get things easier.”

And indeed there was no way. There was no deviation from the road that lay ahead of him.

But for all that Robin had never been happier. Every day he was finding his feet more firmly on the solid earth of reality. The circle of his friends and acquaintances was growing wider—and he was enjoying the rich experience of his varied contacts.

And strangely enough he was enjoying life the more because he was working harder than he had ever done. He enjoyed his infrequent breaks. He came back to the plough reinvigorated. No doubt Mossgiel was slavery; but it was a different slavery from the Mount Oliphant of his youth and the Lochlea of his early manhood. For too many long weary years he had slaved without remission and with little hope of betterment.

Now he had hope and the capacity for rich enjoyment. No longer did he fear that the world would crush him into poverty and insignificance.

He would conquer his corner of the world and set all fear at defiance. He had writhed under the lash of the Kirk and had flushed at the sneers of the unco guid. But he had found their measure, and now he was cracking the whip of searing satire on their rigidly-righteous backs. Best of all, for so doing, he was winning approbation and warm-hearted approval from the men he loved—and what a balm this was to his injured pride!