Читать книгу The Song in the Green Thorn Tree - James William Barke - Страница 7

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The Reverend William Auld, parish minister of Machlin, trudged down the Backcauseway. He was returning from a visit to a dying parishioner whose thatched dwelling stood along the Kilmarnock road at the north end of the town.

It was March and the weather was bleak and cold. It began to rain. Mr. Auld adjusted his cloak and pulled at the wide brim of his black hat. Then he canted his head cock-wise to the steep roof of his kirk where it rose above the bare black branches of a great ash-tree.

The roof was leaking. The previous Sunday it had rained and the drops had descended on the occupants of the Ballochmyle Loft. He might have forgotten about the leak; but he was certain Claude Alexander of Ballochmyle would remember. Aye ... Claude Alexander! A new-comer; and the richest man in the district: sometime Auditor-General to the fabulous East India Company at Bengal! A nabob! But that was the way of things: the leak had to be above his head.

Mr. Auld was minded for a moment to enter the kirkyard from the Backcauseway. But he reflected on the weather, the muddy state of the ground and the lamentable fact that the clarty folk of Machlin used the kirkyard as a dung-midden, a cesspool, and, under cover of darkness, as a place for general relief. No: he would hold to the cobbles and go round by the Cross. It would add less than a minute to his journey.

As he turned right towards the Cross, he heard the tinkle of James Smith’s shop bell, and turning his head sharply he saw Jean Armour in the light that streamed over the glistening cobbles from the square window. He turned on his heel.

“Is that you, Jean Armour?”

“Aye: it’s me, sir.”

“I was sure it was. It’s wearing round to a sair nicht. Well now, my lassie: you’re going round to the house? Aye: there’s a good lass now. Tell your father to slip over to the kirk: I want a word wi’ him anent the leak i’ the roof.”

“I will surely, Mr. Auld.”

“Aye: you’re a good lass, Jean. Run on and no’ get drookit.”

“Guid-nicht, sir.”

He watched her as she skelped round the Cross. Jean Armour was one of his favourites. Polite, obliging, gentle—and aye with a cheery smile and a merry innocent laugh. A nice lass; and, fegs, she was growing up into a splendid young woman ... with beauty. Aye ... the daughters o’ Jerusalem were dark but comely. Jean was black as the slaeberry; but comely. He minded the morn he had baptised her. That would be seventeen years ago anyway. He had watched her growing up as he’d watched so many others. No doubt he would marry her and baptise her children even as he had married her parents—God willing...

From the outside, Machlin Kirk was as ill-looking a biggin as could be seen in the West: inside it was dank and musty. There were times when it smelled like a charnel house: there were times when the smell was less pleasant. The kirk was old: how old nobody really knew; but, for a certainty, the walls had stood there for over five hundred years, so that the outside level of the yard was several feet above the floor level of the kirk.

The kirk furnishings were as drab as the masonry; some rough forms and benches served as pews and there was a number of desks for individuals of some distinction. But the most noteworthy feature of the interior concerned the peculiar arrangement of its lofts.

Mr. Auld lit a stand of candles and placed it on the edge of a communion table. The kirk stirred into life with the movements of fantastic shadows.

The kirk was ill lit at any time, there being only one large window in the north wall between the Ballochmyle Loft and the Loudon Loft and directly opposite the pulpit. On the immediate left of the pulpit, almost within reach of the precentor’s desk, stood the stool of repentance, an elevated platform with a small hand-rail that could, at a pinch, give accommodation to three adults. Immediately above the place of public repentance, running the full breadth of the kirk from north to south, was the West or Auchinleck Loft: to balance it in the east was a similar loft known as the Common Loft. But whereas the underside of the Auchinleck Loft served as a roof for the vestry, the Common Loft was boarded to the floor and the portion thus screened off served the purpose of a school-house. On the right of the pulpit, and fixed at a slightly higher elevation, was the Barskimming Loft, a ridiculous and incongruous perch. Like the rest of the lofts, it had its own separate entry from the outside; and thus the genteel occupants were saved from mingling with the common herd of the congregation.

Mr. Auld turned to James Armour.

“Just above the Ballochmyle Loft, Jeems.”

“Whatever you say, Mr. Auld. But, of coorse, the drip might be coming frae the ridge—and running doon. It’ll mean a thorough examination, and there’s nae saying off-hand just what would be needed or what the expense might be. You canna estimate on a job like that, Mr. Auld—the Session’ll understand that.”

“Aye... And you’ll want payment for your examination, Jeems?”

“Weel ... if the job’s coming my way I would throw that in for nothing.”

“But there’ll need to be no drops on the Ballochmyle Loft this Sabbath—inspection or no inspection. We canna have Ballochmyle drookit whatever the ways o’t, Jeems.”

“Weel, Mr. Auld, if the rain keeps on it’ll no’ be lang till we see the place; and I micht be able to peg it till sic time as we get the trouble righted.”

“Do that, Jeems. I’ll be in consultation with the Session this verra nicht.”

“I’ll send over one o’ the boys in daylicht to sit in the loft till we trace the hole, Mr. Auld—and then I’ll just bide your orders.”

“Verra well, Jeems: I’ll send orders wi’ Robin Gibb or Mr. Fisher—so that there’ll be nae delay. Guid-nicht to you.”

“Guid-nicht, Mr. Auld—and thank ye. You can lippen on me.”

James Armour was the leading Machlin mason and something of a wright as well. He did a good business in the town and among the surrounding farmers; and occasionally he did important work for the gentry. Often he did work as far away as Tarbolton in the west and Cumnock in the south. He even journeyed as far away as the Duke of Argyll’s castle at Inveraray. But though prosperous and a good builder, Armour was mean and grasping. He was not the man to allow any sentiment to blur his vision.

When he saw William Auld was safely across the intervening breadth of Loudon Street and heading down the Cowgate, James hurried across the yard to Nance Tinnock’s howff and entered by the top door into the upper room. Nance, though usually below on the Backcauseway floor, happened to be putting an armful of peats on the fire in the upper room.

“It’s yourself, Mr. Armour—it’s turned a wild night.”

“It has that, Nance. Aye, it has that. Bring me a gill, Nance—I’m no’ biding. I’ve a bit job on i’ the kirk; an’ it’s a cauld hole to work in.”

“’Deed and it’s a cauld hole to worship in.”

“Well ... that’ll bring no harm to your trade, Nance.”

“Folk’ll never want an excuse to ca’ in here, Mr. Armour. I mind my mither—God keep her—saying to me when I was a bit slip o’ a lassie rinsing out the pint stoups: ‘As lang’s folk have the fear o’ God about them, they’ll aye need a drink.’ I’ll fetch ye your gill, Mr. Armour. Aye ... I saw Mr. Auld away roun’ the corner there a wee while back; he’d be awa’ up seeing Tammy Douglas: I hear he’s gey near through...”

As Nance, a motherly middle-aged woman, shuffled down the narrow wooden stair, Armour fished out his snuff-box, inserted a spatulate thumb and conveyed a spoonful of snuff to his red-haired nostrils.

He took the drink from Nance and counted the coppers grudgingly into her hand.

“That’s Holy Willie just slipped in, Mr. Armour.”

The hard core in Armour’s eye sharpened to a gimlet point.

“Thank ye, Nance.”

“I thought I would just mention it. There’s some folks better to ken as little about your business——”

“That’s right, Nance. Damned, that bluidy man’s jinking round every corner in Machlin. It’s a wonder he’s no’ praying Tammy Douglas into the next warl’.”

“He’s a meeting wi’ Mr. Auld in half-an-hour—and then he’s for the death-bed.”

“God forgive me, Nance; but I could never abide Willie Fisher praying on my death-bed——”

“When you’re on your death-bed, Mr. Armour, you’re gey glad to have anybody praying for you.”

“Ah, damned, Nance, but I’ve a notion Willie Fisher would never pray me into Heaven—and I ken as weel as onybody a death-bed’s no’ to be joked about. But thank ye, Nance woman; I’ll just slip out now while I have the chance. Guid-nicht wi’ ye.”

James Armour was one of Nance’s best customers and, though she didn’t like him, she was careful not to offend him. Nance found she had to practise an astute diplomacy and be ever on the alert to observe the foibles of her customers. There was no lack of drinking-houses in Machlin. There was Poosie Nancie’s just across the breadth of the sward, and near it, on the other side of the narrow Cowgate, John Dow’s Whitefoord Arms, the principal inn and howff in the town. But there were folks who didn’t like to have their drinking habits made too public, and it was easy and convenient for them to slip in from the high ground into her upper chamber, or to jowk round the corner of the Backcauseway and seat themselves snugly in the corner of her front room.

Nance knew that none of her regulars would ever darken Poosie Nancie’s door—that was for the riff-raff and passing vagrants. And though the Elbow Tavern had better accommodation than she could boast, and Ronald’s meeting-house—also with its back to the kirkyard—was altogether more elegant, what with its top-floor ballroom, they were both much too public for douce drinking. But Nance knew that her greatest asset lay in her discretion: she never divulged a secret.

Holy Willie was as a man set apart. He was welcome to no howff in Machlin. Willie was the leading elder. It was his sacred duty to spy, for the glory of God, on everybody’s movements; to listen to every scrap of gossip and scandal; to note every break in any of the Kirk’s innumerable ordinances—and to report everything he saw and heard to Mr. Auld and his session of elders.

That Willie was a hypocrite, a sneak and a venomous-tongued liar nobody doubted—not even Mr. Auld. But Willie was feared. Behind him lay the unchallenged authority of the parish minister and the machinery of the Kirk Session. And the machinery of the Session was not to be opposed by any man in Scotland, unless he was possessed of considerable wealth and power—though even the great folks found it more convenient to have the Session working with them than against them.

Of himself, Holy Willie was as poor a specimen of manhood as Machlin could boast. He was always tippling. And though his breath, night or morning, never failed to reek of ale or spirit, he was seldom drunk to the point of incapability. He managed to dither about with brittle irritable gestures, forever peering with his weak foxy eyes, never able to look anyone or any object straight on but always from a foxy sidelong glance: his neck forever craning sideways in sitting down, standing up or walking about.

Four years previously, Old Fisher had died and Willie and his wife, Jean Hewatson, had come into possession of Montgarswood, a tidy farm lying out on the Sorn road. It was Jean and the children who did most of the farm work, since Willie was so much occupied with the work of the Lord. At the age of forty-seven, Holy Willie felt the burden of this work heavy and responsible.

Willie always took the Sabbath collections from the lofts occupied by the gentry. Access to the lofts was gained from flights of stone steps on the outside wall of the kirk. On descending these of a Sabbath, Willie would select a few small coins and, unperceived, drop them into the top of his knee-boots. It was a poor Sabbath Willie couldn’t make his week’s ale-money out of the pilfered offerings.

Not that he would have gone dry for lack of a copper. He could always depend on someone trying to buy off his ecclesiastical spying by standing him a drink.

Nance Tinnock didn’t like Willie and she would as soon have seen the devil entering her howff. But she knew his power and knew how he had to be placated—especially for the sake of her customers. To-night she was glad to find Willie was not prolonging his stay.

“An important meeting o’ the Session the night, Mistress Tinnock... Oooh aye. Mr. Auld and myself ... oooh aye, and the Session. Very important business. The parish is straying from the paths of righteousness and the wicked are ettling for to flourish like the green bay tree. Like the green bay tree. Oooh aye; but the Kirk maun ever be vigilant in stamping out sin, Mistress Tinnock. Especially the sins o’ the flesh ... oooh a wicked and adulterous generation is growing up among us and we must grapple wi’ them and cast them into the furnace o’ correction—for the good of their immortal souls, Mistress Tinnock. For the good of their immortal souls. That’s how Mr. Auld commanded me. ‘Mr. Fisher,’ said Mr. Auld, ‘ye maun go out into the highways and by-ways and keep a sharp eye on the backsliders, so that we may yet have time to grapple wi’ them for their correction.’ Aye ... and after the Session meeting there’s nae rest for me. I’ll need to visit Tammy Douglas and wrestle with his soul. The soul’s what matters, for the flesh withereth. Aye; and the flesh is verra weak.”

“Verra weak indeed, Mr. Fisher.”

“Oooh aye; we maun aye be grappling.”

“You’ll get your reward, Mr. Fisher.”

“Reward, eh? Ah—but all the glory shall be His. Amen, amen. Weel ... I’ll need to push on down the Cowgate ... a maist important meeting the nicht... Ye havena seen Jamie Lamie? No, no; Jeems would be busy... Aye: I’ll no’ say guid-nicht the now, seeing how I might stop in on my road up to poor Tammy’s... Aye, on a lang sair nicht o’ a death-bed praying, a body needs a wee sensation o’ refreshment ... oooh aye.”

Willie fidgeted with his plaid, folded it well about his narrow drooping shoulders and shuffled unsteadily over the cobbles—but not before he had cast a quick furtive leftwards glance towards Gavin Hamilton’s back-door and Ronald’s entry.

The minister’s room at the Machlin manse was a square sombre room with heavy furniture and many heavily-bound leather volumes of theological writings.

Two massive pewter candlesticks supporting two thick tallow candles sat on the table at Mr. Auld’s seat, and provided, in addition to the firelight, a flickering illumination.

Yet the room suited Mr. Auld, with his lofty forehead, his long pointed nose and his long square-cut jaw.

It was a bachelor’s room and the room of an eighteenth century man of God. It was as square and sharp-angled as Mr. Auld was square and sharp-angled. It was wholly uncompromising as the Reverend William, stout Old Light theologian, was uncompromising.

Mr. Auld was presiding at a full meeting of the Session in Machlin. Usually they met in the kirk; but on a specially cold night, or for Mr. Auld’s convenience, they met at the manse. Willie Fisher sat on his right hand. Next to Willie sat James Lamie, a strict narrow-visioned man with little imaginative faculty. Lamie was a disciplinarian who regretted that the Kirk had given up its uniquely-varied instruments of torture. For though he would not have admitted to a belief in torture, Lamie was of the opinion that physical chastisement was by far the best corrective for evil-doers. Lamie was step-father to Wee Jamie Smith, and Smith had good cause to know how devilishly he carried his theory into practice.

Next in order round the table sat Thomas Guthrie, Hugh Aird, John Siller and James Smith. They were all men over middle age. Fisher and Lamie were the active elders—it was they who kept Auld versed in every minute nicety of Machlin life.

Auld disliked William Fisher and treated him with brusque consideration. But he knew Fisher’s value: his reports were very necessary and Auld knew how to interpret them, separating, often at a glance, the chaff of malicious scandal from the wheat of cardinal sin.

To-night the Session was about to compear a couple proved guilty of the heinous sin of fornication. This fornication was no less heinous in that it was pre-nuptial. That the couple had married before the evidence of their sin had seen the light of day in no way excused them.

Mr. Auld had long been made aware of the peculiar fact that, when any of the congregation had to appear on the sessional carpet for a sexual offence, he could count on a full attendance from his lay-shepherds. Indeed, no other sin so excited their holy zeal for probing into the mystery of the passionate relationship between man and woman and the theological relationship between both and the Presbyterian conception of God.

But before they began their review of the evidence—the couple would be compeared later—Robert Burns was admitted to the minister’s room.

Robert, recognising Auld, approached him and handed him his certificate of character from Tarbolton Kirk Session.

Auld looked it over.

“I have here,” he addressed the Session, “a certificate from Doctor Woodrow’s parish for Mr. Robert Burns and his family. It is a clean bill. And what number make up your family, Mr. Burns? Perhaps you will give us some details?”

“There is my widowed mother, coming into her fifty-first year. Next to me, and sharing the tenancy of Mossgiel with me, is my brother Gilbert. He is a year younger than me—that is, about twenty-four years old. Then my sister Agnes, about twenty-two; my sister Annabella, about twenty; my brother William, about seventeen; my brother John, about fifteen; and finally my sister Isa, about thirteen years old. These, sir, constitute my family. In addition, my cousin, Robert Allan from Old Rome Forest in the Parish of Dundonald, will worship in Machlin; and I have as boys John Blane, David Hutchieson and William Patrick.”

Auld eyed him with some surprise.

“And do you regularly exercise your family in religious devotion, Mr. Burns?”

“Regularly within the twenty-four hours, Mr. Auld.”

Willie Fisher held out his hand for the certificate; but Auld ignored him. “Well, Mr. Burns, I extend a welcome to you on behalf of myself and the Session. You are settled, I see, in the farm of Mossgiel?”

“That is so, Mr. Auld.”

Fisher said: “Your father died, Mr. Burns, not so long ago when you were in the farm of Lochlea?”

Robert nodded.

“You’ll have a sub-let then of Mossgiel from Gavin Hamilton?”

“My brother and I are joint partners in the venture.”

“You’ll be a particular friend of Gavin Hamilton maybe?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Oh well: we’ll soon find out,” said Fisher, noting the hard cold look that Auld directed to him.

“Is there any reason why I should not be a friend of Mr. Hamilton?”

Auld interposed: “The Session is not concerned with your friends, Mr. Burns. Please do not think that the Session has anything against Mr. Hamilton that need interest you. You know your religious duties, Mr. Burns, and you know the ordinances of the Kirk. I trust there will be no reason during your stay with us for the Session to have any cause to find fault with you. If I can be of any assistance to you, or you feel that you need my help or advice at any time, Mr. Burns, do not hesitate to seek me out at the manse here. And I know that the gentlemen of the Session will be only too glad in the way of their duty to be of assistance to you and your family in Mossgiel.”

Robert had always regarded the Reverend William Auld as a very stern and unbending man. He watched Auld as he spoke, noted the cold fearless eye and the square purposeful jaw. But withal, he found the minister kindly and civilly disposed towards him. He thanked him and retired.

The moment he had gone, Fisher hastened to explain what he had meant by his reference to Gavin Hamilton.

“There is something of a mystery about the way Burns came to Mossgiel, Mr. Auld. From what I can gather, there was some kind of a secret arrangement in the back-end of last year atween Burns and Hamilton. There was a bit of litigation over Lochlea with David MacLure, the Ayr merchant. There has been a lot of nasty rumours anent that business that have never properly been cleared up. But I’m thinking Burns must be gey big with Hamilton to have landed so nicely into Mossgiel.”

Lamie said: “I dinna like his connection wi’ Hamilton. But he seems an honest-enough character by the look of him. He spoke up fair and manly enough.”

Hugh Aird said: “I must say but I liked the look of him myself; and if there is ocht atween him and Gavin Hamilton it will not be long in coming to the forefront.”

Auld interposed with a dry precision: “I must remind you that the Session has enough on its hands without concerning itself with idle gossip. I have had to speak before, Mr. Fisher, about idle gossip concerning Hamilton. He is not a man to be trifled with; and when we strike we must be sure of our ground. And maybe now, gentlemen, we will proceed to the business of the evening.”

Leaving Auld’s, Robert took the footpath behind the manse to the Bellman’s Vennel and cut down leftwards to the Cross. There he paused for a moment to see if anyone was about and then crossed over to the High Street to Richmond’s house only to find that John was still working at Gavin Hamilton’s. He was determined not to go home without seeing one or other of his Machlin friends, and remembering that he had seen James Lamie, Smith’s step-father, at the manse, he called next door, at the shop, to find James ready to put up the shutters.

“I’m glad to see you, Robin: it’s a dirty sair nicht and I could do fine wi’ an hour’s crack round Pigeon Johnnie’s bleezing ingle.”

“Well spoken, Jamie; and I’m the lad to join you. I’ve just been afore the Session at the manse and presented my character from Tarbolton. I could do wi’ a drink.”

But just as Smith was about to bring out the wooden shutters from the back shop, the door-bell rang, and in came Lizzie Miller seeking a twist of linen thread.

“Have you met Miss Miller?” inquired Smith.

“I have not yet had that honour,” said Robin, his speech stiffening into formal English as it invariably did on such occasions.

“Here’s your chance now, Lizzie. This is Robert Burns you’ve heard me talking about—from Mossgiel.”

Robert and Lizzie shook hands.

“I’ve heard quite a bit about you, Mr. Burns.”

“Nothing in my disfavour, I trust?”

“Oh no ... not yet onyway.”

“Robert’s a fine dancer, Lizzie. We’ll need to have a set at Ronald’s some night.”

“That would be fine.”

“I’ll hold you to that promise, Miss Miller.”

“Oh ... I havena promised onything, Mr. Burns.”

“I’ll take it as a promise nevertheless.”

“You’ll enjoy Robert’s company, Lizzie: I can assure you of that. What about a foursome along the Barskimming road some nicht—you could bring Jean Armour along wi’ you?”

“’Deed, I have more to do wi’ my time, Jamie, than stravaig the Barskimming road in the dark. Give me my thread, if you please, and I’ll be on my way. I’ve plenty to do if you havena... Good-nicht, Mr. Burns: I suppose we’ll be seeing you about Machlin?”

“That you shall, madam—and I could think of a better road than the mud-track that leads to Barskimming!”

“I’ve no doubt. Maybe I could think on one mysel’.”

Robert had noted her closely. Noted the good quality of her dress and the elegance of her silk-fringed shawl. He had also noted her regular features and the friendly light that danced in her eyes. Miss Miller was very definitely a cut above the average Machlin maiden; and she was fully conscious of her worth.

When she had gone Smith said: “You’ll like her, Robin: I can see she’s taken to you.”

“Oh...?”

“She’s a sharper, Betty. Cut you off by the wrists as quick as look at you—if she’s no’ interested.”

“And who is she when she’s at home?”

“Plenty of money. The father’s a joiner; but he also owns the Sun Inn at the head o’ the Bellman’s Vennel—whaur Doctor MacKenzie lodges... There’s a wheen o’ them run thegither: Jean Armour——”

“You have a notion of Jean Armour—or was Jean Armour for me?”

“What’s the odds: they’re both toppers.”

“I’m going to like Machlin, Jamie.”

“Damned true you are. Wait till you meet them all. Apart frae the respectable dames, there’s Maggie Borland, Jean Mitchell and Bet Barbour—they don’t need ony coaxing. And how’re things doing at Mossgiel?”

“Doing fine, Jamie. I’m reading nothing but farming books now—and I’m making a special study o’ ploughs. Success in farming depends a lot on the quality of your ploughing. James Small has a maist interesting volume on ploughs. But what interest has a draper in farming problems?”

“Still and on, Robin: I’m glad to hear you’re determined to make a success of your new place. You’ve had a lot of bad luck and I hope fortune changes for you. Mind you, I’ve a lot to learn in this trade. But I know you canna succeed in ony work unless you apply yourself—and what goes for the drapering goes for farming—or clerking, like Jock Richmond.”

“That’s sensible enough. Well ... if hard work and constant application will make me a successful farmer, I’m certainly laying the foundation of a grand fortune.”

“That’s the shutters up now. We’ll have a caup o’ ale in Dow’s—maybe Jock Richmond will be there waiting on us. There’ll be some of the boys there onyway.”

They bent their heads and hurried up by the Cross and entered John Dow’s on the corner of the Cowgate. Pigeon Johnnie, as he was nicknamed, gave them a rough welcome.

Dow was of medium height. He was built like a barrel and had a coarse red face and a hard eye. He cursed and swore more than any ten men in Machlin. But though rough and violent of speech, he was good-natured and enjoyed his drink as much as any of his customers. His son, Sandy, drove the coach between Machlin and Kilmarnock.

“Weel ... what are you twa beggars after now? How are you, Rab? A puir day for the ploughing. Writing ony mair o’ yon bluidy poetry o’ yours? What? Man, a poem withouten a guid swatch o’ houghmagandie’s nae worth o’ gabbing. Gang your ways ben, Rab. Damned, you’re aye welcome here. The beggars i’ Machlin here are a set o’ libbit cattle. Except Jamie here. Our Jamie’s a beggar for the weemin, Rab—he’ll hae ye on a houghmagandie ploy gin ye get better acquaint... Weel ... there’s your yill, boys! Draw up your seats to the bleeze——Oh, here’s Ga’n Hamilton’s scrivener—looking like a bluidy ghost as usual—wha kens but you’re steerin’ up some sappy hizzie, Jock! It’s maybe Racer Jess! Oh, I wouldna put Jess past ye, Jock. Aye: I ken fine you’ve your een on Jenny Surgeoner. But you’re makin’ a big mistake, Jock laddie. Bone Lizzie Miller, aye, or Jean Armour there.” Johnnie jerked his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of Armour’s house through the wall. “What’s that? You’re nae judge o’ a hizzie. Aye, you’re a puir crowd o’ poachers—Geordie Gibson’s jurr’ll be about your stretch. What dae you say, Rab? Have you no’ picked your fancy i’ the Machlin jads? Mind ye, Rab: I think ye’d be a grand judge o’ a ticht-hippit hizzie—and, fegs, I’ll warrant you’ve rolled many a one in your plaidie. Well ... they’re yours, lads, when you’re young. If you canna steer them up and haud them gaun now, you’ll never do it. There’s an auld sang frae Carrick, Rab, that you should ken: ‘Oh, gie my love brose, lassies, gie my love brose and butter, for nane in Carrick wi’ him can gie a lass her supper.’”

Robert fished in his pockets and drew out a fold of paper, uncorked his ink-horn and wet the point of his quill.

“Come over that again, Johnnie—that’s a new one to me.”

“Damn it, Rab, dinna tell me you’ve missed that one? Richt then, tak’ it down. I’ve nae doubt but you’ll be able to cobble the lines a bit after your own fancy.”

It was a rich song, bawdy as a bare buttock, and Pigeon Johnnie could do it rare justice.

“That’s a grand song, Johnnie—if you think on more of the like, be sure to let me know.”

“Another o’ the same, eh, as Davit said o’ the psalms? Ah, you’re a randy beggar, Rab. Man, the sangs I’ve heard sung in this room and the verses I’ve heard recited—they would warm the cockles o’ your heart to all eternity. I’ll hae a word wi’ the wife: she’s a better memory for them than I hae. When she was younger, she used to sing a beauty: The Nine’ll Please. I’ll tell you what: you mak’ a sang on the Whitefoord Arms here, and I’ll see that the wife gives you the richt words o’ some o’ thae auld ballents. Aye, man; but nowadays they’ve gotten sae mealy-mouthed that they havena the same stomach for the auld ways o’ putting things. Well, lads ... I’ll need to leave you: I ken you’ll hae plenty to jaw about. Gie the bell a ring there, Rab, gin you want your stoup filled.”

It was a pleasant room they were given in the Whitefoord Arms: a small back room, with a low boarded ceiling and a great yellow candle suspended above the table in a black iron sconce; a wide fireplace with a blaze of peats and logs on the open hearth—and a small square window looking directly across the path to James Armour’s house.

It was known, and had been known for many a day, as the boys’ room—where sons were in no danger of meeting with their fathers or fathers meeting with their sons. It was convenient also to the back-door, where a lad might escape into the lane and so into the Cowgate.

Smith and Richmond, William Hunter and David Brice had long used the room for their regular meetings, for though they might sometimes take a turn to the Elbow Tavern or Nance Tinnock’s, or Willie Gray’s in the Bellman’s Vennel, or Willie Ronald’s just below Nance Tinnock’s—especially if there were dancing in Willie’s top-floor ballroom—they invariably began their evening in the back room of John Dow’s inn.

Robert was to know many a happy night there with his cronies. And to-night, stimulated by a new bawdy ballad of the old Carrick days, his mood was genial.

Already he was beginning to polish the old rough lines, but retaining all the bold unashamed uninhibited directness of the old phrases.

“I suppose I’ll never learn sense. Here was I determined never to waste an hour on poetry again. There was me up in Mossgiel coming in for my meals, saying ‘I will be wise,’ like a bluidy idiot, and putting my nose in an agricultural treatise. And here I am! An old bawdy song and I feel like throwing every care to the winds and taking to the roads like the tinklers.”

“And why not?” asked Wee Jamie. “The tinklers know how to enjoy life. I was in Poosie Nancie’s once—a bit o’ business took me in... God! you should have seen the fun they were having!”

Richmond shook his head. “You’ll find only the damnedest ne’er-do-weels in Gibson’s howff.”

“I don’t know,” said Robert. “Ne’er-do-weels often do verra weel... Aye ... there’s many a beggar tramping the roads, bedding in a barn or dry ditch, enjoys life more than ony staid stay-at-home.”

Richmond was not to be won from his position.

“On a night like this, for example? No, no, Rab. That’s a romantic notion you’ve gotten. I’m not going to compare honest living wi’ a lousy pack of cadging gangrels. They’re scoundrels and vagabonds, every one o’ them; liars, cheats and a damned sight worse. I’d press-gang the whole bluidy lot to the plantations—and guid riddance.”

Smith was indignant: “I’m surprised at you, Jock. Trace ony o’ our pedigrees back a hundred years—aye, or less—and damned few o’ us came frae ony better stock than ye’ll find in Poosie Nancie’s the nicht—or maist nichts!”

“You’re right, Jamie. There’s some grand fellows amang them. Sailors maltreated by the infidels—maybe their ears cut off or a hand hagged off at the wrist; mony an old soldier crippled frae the wars... Oh, there’re bad ones among them, just as there is onywhere. I’ll warrant there’s bad ones in the Machlin Kirk Session——”

“My step-father for one,” said Smith. “If ever there was an evil-hearted auld beggar, it’s James Lamie. A black-hearted bastard. I’m for leaving him one o’ thae days. And what about Holy Willie? I’d rather mix with vagrants in Gibson’s house than mix wi’ yon yellow-bellied grass-snake.”

“Willie Fisher? I saw him at the Session the night. But a grass-snake’s harmless, Jamie; and I doubt nor Holy Willie is.”

“You’re right there, Rab. He’s got his knife in Gavin Hamilton too—watches his every move.”

“Oh! What’s he got against Hamilton, Jock?”

“Hamilton and Daddy Auld dinna pull thegither—hate the sight of each other. Hamilton’s strong on the New Light. Doctor MacKenzie and Gavin are gey thick on the moderates. They don’t give a damn for Daddy Auld or his Session either.”

“Mind you,” said Robert, “when I first heard Daddy Auld thundering from the pulpit I thought he was a terror and as bigoted an Old Light outside o’ Black Jock o’ Kilmarnock. But when I spoke to him to-night he was damned civil. No doubt he’s bigoted like the rest o’ his kind; but I got the notion that he was square enough in his honesty. How do you lads find him?”

“For me,” said Richmond, “he’s a narrow-minded black-hearted old runt. I’ve never had a civil word from him. Look at Fisher! Auld listens to every slimy tale Fisher takes to him. He watches every girl and woman in the parish, and whenever he gets wind that they are in the family way, off he scuttles to Daddy Auld and, before long, they’re compearing afore the Session. There isn’t a dirtier rat in Machlin than Willie Fisher—unless it’s William Auld that listens to him.”

“That’s only half true,” said Smith. “Admittedly Willie Fisher’s all you say he is. But d’you think Auld doesna see through Fisher? Sure he does. Auld canna go creeping through the parish—he lets Fisher do that. Fisher does all the dirty snooking for the Session. Mind you, I don’t hold with it. I think it’s rotten. But Auld has his way of looking at things—and that happens to be the Kirk’s way. But—allowing for that—I don’t think Auld’s a hypocrite. In any case, Auld’s in the grip o’ the Session more than you would think. I know Lamie, and Lamie would damn soon make complaint to the Presbytery in Ayr if Auld didna carry out the ordinances—especially in regard to fornication. You can see Holy Willie’s jaws slavering a mile off when he discovers a good fornication. Lamie would rather gang without his brose than miss a compearing for fornication. And they’re a’ the same. Auld wouldna last ten minutes if he failed to compear the fornicators—you surely know that, Jock?”

“Maybe, Jamie. But I don’t see you can whitewash Auld by blackening the Session. Auld can sway them whatever way he fancies. What do you say, Rab?”

“I don’t know Auld well enough yet—and I don’t know the Session. But I know plenty of ministers that take a common-sense view o’ Kirk discipline, and manage fine without all this bluidy inquisition. I often talked wi’ John MacMath, Doctor Woodrow’s assistant in Tarbolton. Well, MacMath has no time for half of this nonsense—and I know he wouldna have a man like Holy Willie near him. No ... on the question o’ the Kirk, I’m all for Gavin Hamilton and Doctor MacKenzie. MacKenzie has as common-sense a view o’ religion as you’ll find anywhere. There’s a new spirit abroad. Thinkers know that you canna make a man religious by forcing him to attend the service on the Sabbath and observe a lot of ordinances that have nothing to do with religion. Scotland’s been held down by the holy trinity o’ Session, Presbytery and Synod too long. Battering hell out of folk is no’ letting heaven into them. And that’s what the Kirk’s been doing since Knox started with Mary Stewart—knocking hell out of them and fear into them. And they use the fear of hell as a hangman’s whip to hold the folk in order. But folks are getting sense—aye, plenty folk never lost their sense. Take that song o’ John Dow’s. Take Green Grow the Rashes, Andro and his Cutty Gun, The Lass o’ Livingston—and mony others. Take the Errock Stane: ‘As I sat on the Errock Stane surveying far and near, up came a Cameronian man wi’ a’ his preaching gear. He threw his Bible ower the hill amang the threshy gerss; but the Solemn League and Covenant——’ the Solemn League and Covenant, mind you ... and you ken the rest! And they tell you that this generation’s the worst Scotland ever saw! That folk are irking at the Kirk’s discipline! It’s plain from the auld bawdy songs that there were aye folk in Scotland had a common-sense view of religion. Only, the difference now is that among the clergy themselves there’s the beginnings of intelligent revolt. And we’ve got to rally to the reforming clergy. Any attack on them is an attack on us; any attack on us is an attack on them. Between common-sense folk and common-sense clergy we’ll make a clean sweep of all this black-hearted bigotry... Auld will never reform; you canna expect him at his age, especially if what you say is true about his elders. But he can be held in check. We can draw his claws if he sticks them out too far. But what has Gavin done to incur their wrath?”

“Auld claims that Hamilton owes some money that he collected for the poor. It seems he refuses to hand it over for some reason or other.”

“Then it must be a good reason, Jock. Gavin Hamilton would never tamper wi’ the Poor’s money.”

“I believe there’s something about the fact that he once set off on a journey to Carrick on the Lord’s Day.”

“Damned bigotry!” said Smith.

“I agree, Jamie. Mind you: I think they’re after Gavin just because he takes the common-sense line. And if they can let loose the holy beagles on his trail, ony scent will do. No doubt Daddy Auld has his vanity—and Gavin will have been a sore thorn in his flesh. Maybe we’ll see some fun yet in Machlin. Daddy Auld and Holy Willie against Gavin Hamilton and John MacKenzie...”

“I don’t know, Rab. You don’t know Auld. He’ll tramp out ony opposition without mercy. Auld can be as double-dyed as the devil. He’s a bully—bark like a bluidy bluidhound—but bite? I’m no’ sure except when he has all the authority of the Session behind him.”

“You think that’s why he employs Fisher to do his snooking?”

“I do, Rab. And Fisher’s the delegate to the Ayr Presbytery. But he keeps Fisher under his thumb so that he’ll never suspect just what a coward Auld really is. But to hell, Rab: we’re no’ here to spend the nicht discussing Auld and the Machlin Session, are we?”

“Oh, we could do worse, Jock. You see, I must get my bearings here. You forget that though I’m no stranger to Machlin I don’t know the place intimately. Tarbolton I know—every stick and stone of it. Maybe I am of an enquiring turn of mind; but I like to know things. Men and their manners—living—that’s a grand study, lads.”

“And women?”

“Naturally. And, coming to that, there seems to be plenty to excite my curiosity hereabouts.”

“Aye—they’ll excite more nor your curiosity, Rab.”

“That was a beauty I met the night, Jamie. Lizzie Miller, Jock—you’ll ken her?”

“Fine. But she’s gotten a guid conceit o’ hersel’.”

“None the waur o’ that, is she?”

“Maybe no. But I don’t like them when they get their heads in the air.”

“No more do I... I know the kind, Jock. I know the proud haughty dames. I was once a silly fool thinking women were beings to be placed on a pedestal and worshipped from a distance. But that was long ago. No: proud or humble, high or low, I’ll suit myself with them.”

Richmond laughed.

“I’ve learned that lesson too, Rab. Fair game: that’s what I say.”

“Aye; but game: that’s the point, Jock. What do you say, Jamie?”

“I like them. Only I like too damned mony of them. I can never make up my mind. I’ve never managed to get a walk with Lizzie Miller, though—or Jean Armour. And by God, Rab, I wouldna mind a nicht with either o’ them.”

“Aye... I can see some merry times ahead. I havena been above three times in Machlin Kirk, but each time there were two or three for the cutty stool. You have a reputation here to live up to, Jamie.”

“And I fully intend to keep up the parish record.”

“It’s time you were started then.”

“It’s no joking matter, Rab,” said Richmond: “they’ll never get me to sit on their stool of repentance. I’ll flee the town first.”

“And who do you fancy, Jock? What about that nursemaid o’ Gavin’s—Mary Campbell, is it?”

“Mary Campbell! A Hielan bitch. I made a pass at her once and she was for howling the place down. She’s pock-marked anyway.”

“I thought there was something about her of a superior kind, Jock. Of course, I’ve only passed the time o’ day with her. So she’s Highland?”

“Aye—Arran or somewhere thereabouts. Sings Erse like a bluidy heathen.”

“Sings, eh?”

“Aye; but it’s aye the same tune. No: Jenny Surgeoner is my fancy about here.”

“A nice lassie Jenny,” agreed Smith. “Even if she is a few years older than you.”

“She’s fine,” said Richmond.

“I’m glad to hear that, Jock. A good lass is worth hanging on to.”

“Oh, I’m no’ hanging on to her, Rab. I’ve no notion of getting married: that’s the last straw. A pitcher o’ milk’s better nor keeping a cow. What about filling the stoups? Right: I’ll go ben. If Pigeon Johnnie comes in he’ll start blethering again.”

“Or he might give us another bawdy song?”

“Listen! Hear that? If you were through in Poosie Nancie’s here and now you’d hear bawdy songs.”

Across the narrow lane of the Cowgate and through the wall came the sound of boisterous merriment.

“That’s the gangrels in Poosie’s! Drunk as a puggie every one o’ them—and singing every bawdy song frae Maidenkirk to John o’ Groats.”

“Come on!” said Robin, “we’ll go in and see the fun.”

“What! In that lousy hole?” Richmond screwed up his fastidious nose.

“I’m willing,” said Smith. “It’ll be good fun.”

“You’ll no’ get a drink in there.”

“Richt then, Jock: we’ll have the drink here afore we go in.”

Richmond gathered the stoups and went out.

“I’ll go wi’ you, Rab—even if Jock doesna. There’s a bit o’ the snob in Jock, seeing he’s clerk to Hamilton. But I’ll go wi’ you, Rab. I know why you want to go. Everything’s grist to your mill. That’s how you’re a poet.”

“It’s no’ only that, Jamie. I work hard: I try to do my best and bow my neck to the yoke of affliction. But I’m no’ Job; I’m Rab Burns: Rab the Ranter. I’ve got blood in my veins; and, by God, it’s no’ stagnant. And sometimes, Jamie, I feel I canna thole another minute; then I must have company. I’m fine the now: never felt better. But I’m not always like this. And then I get depressed, melancholy. Melancholy—right down into the pit o’ despair. Aye ... and bide there for weeks. You understand that; but Jock doesna. Jock’s a heady lad wi’ a good grip on his senses. You and me, Jamie: chicken-hearted gulls at bottom. You’ve got to have a good callous round your soul to prosper in this world. And that’s what you and me havena got. We’re too bluidy thin-skinned and sensitive.”

Richmond returned with the stoups.

“Still in the notion o’ going next door? I should be getting back, Rab, and doing another hour’s copying for Gavin—he’s riding into Ayr in the morning.”

“Please yourself, Jock. Nobody’s pressing you.”

Richmond went back to his copying at Gavin Hamilton’s. Robin and Jamie Smith stood outside Poosie Nancie’s door and listened to the merriment that rioted in the low-ceilinged room.

“Come on,” said Robin. “This sounds too glorious to be passed by.”

They raised the sneck of the door and went in.