Читать книгу Ploughman of the Moon - Robert William Service - Страница 6

Table of Contents

"Why can ye no' play wi' Wullie Lamb?" asked my aunt.

"He's too clean," said I. "Besides, he wears specks."

"Ach, ye're daft, I'm thinkin' ye've a weakness for wasters. Yon Dougan boy, for example. Ye ken his father drinks like a fish. Oh, I'm no haudin' that against him. The worst o' it is, the man's a Papist. Ye'll no' go tae heaven if ye frequent wi' lads like that."

"Don't Papists go to heaven?"

"Weel, they maybe slink in by the back-door. But here I am tryin' tae bring ye up wi' religion in yer hert and ye havna' read yer day's chapter in the Bible."

"But I want to play with my new gurr."

This was an iron hoop one trundled with a "cleek." I boasted I could run the length of the town with it, without stopping. Jimmie Dunn, the blacksmith, had made it for me for sixpence. But my aunt was inexorable. "If ye don't read yer chapter, ye'll go to the bad place an' burn forever." I remembered how it hurt when I burned my finger-tip on the stove and shuddered at the thought of burning all over. And eternally. So obediently I took up my Bible, hoping the day's chapter was a short one. Usually I gabbled the words, giving no heed to the meaning. This time I gabbled faster than ever, for it was one of the "begat" chapters; but in my heart I cursed the begetters.

Willie, the Minister's son, was indeed my pet aversion, because he was always being held up as a model to me. His tidiness irked me, and I loved to flip ink on his white collar. Besides being a cry-baby, he was Teacher's pet. He sheltered under the wing of Tammie McCurdie, son of the Elder. Tammie was a gangly boy destined for the Kirk, though he knew more bad words than any18 other lad in school.... Maybe there is something wrong with me, but all my life I have had a weakness for scallywags. I prefer the picturesque to the good. Better the blasphemy of Burns than the blessing of a bishop. And this trend showed itself in my tender years, for I fell into bad company with happy alacrity. This was in the person of Pat Dougan, son of the town chimney-sweep. He was a striking lad, some three years older than I. He had a broad, blunt face, clinched by a tight mouth, and steel-grey eyes with a stormy stare. His sorrel hair matched his freckles, while in figure he was strong and shapely. Altogether he was wonderful in my eyes, and in his company I felt safe and serene.

True, when his father was spruced up, he was the best looking man in town; just as in his working hours he was the most disreputable. "What does it matter if my face be gloured with soot when my soul is grimed with sin," he would say in his cups, which was nearly every night. In this he was encouraged by the publicans who gave him free drinks because of his entertainment value. Landlords vied for him, and when the word went round that he was in the Brig o' Air or the Bull and Bagpipes there the crowd would go. He would dominate the convivial gathering and receipts would be doubled. Besides, he was the town's man of mystery. He had gipsied to the ends of the earth, been a soldier, a sailor, and heaven knows what other disreputable character. Anyhow, to my mind he was the most colourful of men, and I regarded him with admiration.

He looked the reckless adventurer, tall and lean, with bold features and a bitter smile. His voice had a vibrancy that made his every word sound dramatic, and he had lost the first two fingers of his right hand, so that we called him Three Fingered Frank. Although repulsive in his official capacity, when tidied up women looked at him willingly. No doubt he could have had many of them, but he was true to the memory of his wife. It was said by his friends that the loss of her had driven him to drink, while his enemies declared his drinking had hastened her end.

There was always one dramatic moment in the evening, when19 the boys in the bar-room would shout for Frank to tell the story of his lost fingers. Holding up his maimed hand he would begin a ten-minute recital. His story varied and sometimes would be so different it seemed his imagination was greater than his veracity. But he was always exciting, and his yarn never failed to bring down the house.... However, there was a side of him that his son knew, and, to a small degree, myself. Before he went on his nightly binge, while Pat was washing up the supper dishes, he would get out a shabby Shakespeare and spout immortal lines. We thought he did it beautifully, and I felt little thrills go up my spine. He awoke in me a joy in Shakespeare I have never outgrown. For a desert island choice between the Bible and the Bard I would elect the latter. Indeed, after my first forced reading of the Bible, I do not remember opening it again. Yes, Pat's father was a queer card. I think he must have spouted Shakespeare for the boys in the back room, for one day I heard Jimmie Dunn, the blacksmith, remark: "It's a sair pity to see a man that can out-rant a' the actors, soopin' lums for a livin'."

Jimmie's smiddy was my favourite haunt. It was near our house, and I would squat on a heap of hoof-pairings, watching the smith bang out horseshoes. I loved the smell of burning bone, the shower of sparks and the hiss of water on hot iron. Jimmie usually ignored me, but one day he said: "Whit are ye goin' to be when ye get tae be a big man?"

"A blacksmith," I said.

"Whit fur d'ye want tae be a blacksmith?" he asked.

"I want to have strong arms like you," I told him.

This was true. I never tired of admiring them. They were so massive, though he himself was slight. It seemed as if all the might of him had gone into his arms. I could see he was flattered, so I said, "I know a poem about a blacksmith." Then I began: "Under a spreading chestnut tree," and went on to the end. When I had finished he said: "Weel, I've no' got a tree and I've no' got a dochter to sing in the choir, but I like yer piece. Who wrote it?"

I told him. At that age Longfellow was tops with me as a poet, except, of course, Burns. Often he asked me to recite the poem. 20 But I never made any effort to follow his trade. I might have had more respect for myself if I had learned to do at least one thing well.

Pat was the most perfect pal I ever had, dearer to me than any brother. Later on I accepted friendship with reserve, but with Pat my confidence was absolute. He was wise in the lore of field and forest and helped me to understand Nature. We went berrying and mushroom-picking, bird-nesting in the hedges, or guddling trout in the burn. It was while returning from one of these outings we encountered Tammie McCurdie and Willie Lamb. The path was narrow; it was a question who should give way, but Pat brushed Tammie aside. Then he strode arrogantly on, while I followed meekly. We had not gone more than a few yards when Tammie recovered. "Who are ye shovin', ye bluidy Papist?" he shouted indignantly. Pat turned. I knew that fearless stare in his steel-grey eyes. "Say that again," he challenged.

"Bluidy Papist!" said Tammie sullenly. Then Pat pulled off his coat. Tammie reluctantly followed suit, and I saw my first fight. It was short but bloody. There must have been an enmity between them, for they battled like tigers. But while Tammie swung his arms with flailing blows, Pat delivered his punches with cunning. He concentrated on Tammie's nose. After the second tap blood flowed freely. Soon his face was a mask of gore, and obviously it frightened him. Then Pat bored in and flattened him on his back.

"Noo, say ye're a bluidy Papist," he demanded. As Tammie hesitated, he gave him a savage clout. "Come on, ye stinkin' Protestant, say it." Still no reply. Another clout; then Tammie's blood-stifled voice: "I'm a bluidy Papist."

"Louder. Say it three times." Tammie did so. Then Pat said: "Noo, gang hame an' tell yer faither whit I made ye say."

But before he could rise I felt I had to have my innings. There was Willie Lamb, goggle-eyed with terror. I adopted the same position as Pat and advanced on him. Putting my left foot behind him I pushed him over on his back.

"Noo, say ye're a bluidy Papist," said I. Willie lost no time. 21 Eagerly he proclaimed himself one and repeated the stark avowal. However, I wanted to go one better than Pat, so I said: "Say ye're a rotten, stinkin' Papist pig." But Pat checked me. "Leave the bugger be," he said contemptuously. "And you, ye wee bantam, ye don't know how to fecht. Come on an' I'll gie ye a lesson." The result was that I too went home with a bloody nose, but proud in my newly discovered character of a budding Bill Sayers.

I was always a show-off, and as Pat was a hero in my eyes I would do anything to win his praise. So it happened that one day we were returning from a ramble when we came to a field where a black bull grazed in solitary state. He had a fearsome reputation and we were both in awe of him. However, from the safe side of the hedge we hooted at his majesty, who took no notice. Then suddenly Pat said: "I'll daur ye tae rin across the field." At the very thought a creepy sensation ran down my spine. Vividly I saw myself gored and trampled. A dare was hard to take; yet to challenge the wrath of that black monster was unthinkable. ... Then to my amazement I saw myself doing that very thing. Like a flash I found myself on the bull side of the hedge.

"Come back, ye wee deevil," I could hear Pat cry, but already I was crawling round the end of the field. My idea was to skirt the hedge, moving stealthily. However, as the bull took no notice, I grew bolder. "Maybe the old fellow is a bluffer like myself," I thought. So I ventured into the open. Airily I waved my hand to Pat, feeling a bit of a toreador. This, however, attracted the attention of the bull. "Who is this mannikin invading my domain?" he seemed to say. "I must investigate." So he advanced and I can imagine his indignation. Did this diminutive specimen of humanity take him for a cow? Well, he would prove his virility....

As I saw him coming, my nerve failed. I ran for the nearest hedge; but this made the bull run too, and tossing his head he came after me at a trot. I sprinted and would have reached safety when I tripped and fell. The brute had me at his mercy. Panic-stricken, I saw him bearing down on me, his black bulk towering to high heaven. I lay there, paralyzed with fear, awaiting the doom I22 had invited. Then I heard a wild shout and saw the bull pause. It was Pat to the rescue. The bull turned to face this fresh outrage, with Pat only a few yards away making abusive gestures. The bull bellowed and charged. Pat ran for the hedge. He reached it, with the bull at his heels, and cleared it by a running dive. In a heap he landed on the other side, while I, too, crawled to safety. When I rejoined him I found him shaken.

"I want to puke," he said feebly. But after a bit the sick feeling went away, and while the bull roared and foamed we thumbed our noses at him and called him nasty names.

"Whit did ye do it for?" said Pat.

"I jist wanted to show you I wisna' feared," I answered. He gave me a curious look. This was my first experience of that mysterious force that made me do foolish things against which my reason revolted. A power stronger than myself seemed to push me into situations false to my nature. When I was young I never had the courage to be a coward. But if one is imaginative, nervous, and has little self-confidence it is not easy to be brave. I was like that. Most of my exhibitions of spunk were pure bluff, but no one ever found me out.

I had only one quarrel with Pat, and that was serious enough. For three months we passed each other as though we were invisible. One evening we were returning from eel-catching in the burn and were on the little path where we had had our famous fight. I was going ahead when I paused.

"There's a man lyin' doon. I'm thinkin' he's deid."

"Deid drunk, nae doot," said Pat. Then he went white and pushed me back. The man was sprawled across the path, one side of his face in the dirt, spume on his lips. I thought he had had a fit, till I got a whiff of whisky. Then I saw it was Frank Dougan. He was in his working clothes, grimy and tattered. I had never seen a more brutish sight. Pat bent over him anxiously; then he turned to me. "Get oot o' this." He made an effort to raise his father, but failed.

"Can't I help you?" I faltered. The idea of going through the23 village supporting a drunken man dismayed me, but I was game.

"Get oot, daum ye!" Pat cried. And as I hesitated he struck me.

"All right, I'll no' forget that," I said. From a distance I saw him bending over his father. Then he fetched some water in his cap from the mill-dam and splashed it in the man's face. But soon a labourer came along, and between them they got Frank to his cottage.

Next time I saw Pat he gloured at me and I turned bitterly away. He would have to make it up, not I. So it went on all autumn. I missed him miserably, but I was too proud to take the first step. Then one afternoon I met him on the street. This foolishness, I decided, has gone on long enough. I had just bought a poke of toffee balls, "cheuch Jeans" we called them, and they filled the mouth uncomfortably. I went up to him, thrusting out my poke.

"Hae yin," I said. "They're no sae bad." To my relief he took one and I did the same. For a while the sucking of them precluded conversation. Then he finally conceded: "Naw, they're no' sae bad." An awkward pause, then: "D'ye want to see my new peerie?" This was a spinning-top painted red. I wound the string round it and threw it to the ground, at the same time drawing the cord brusquely away. My timing was good, the top hummed sweetly.

"She's a champion," I said.

"No sae bad, but look how I can dae it." He wound the string round it, held it in a certain way, then flung it into the air. In another second it was spinning merrily on the palm of his hand. I was full of admiration. He was the only boy I ever saw do that, and though I practised for hours I could never get the trick of it. Pat was like that. Not only could he do things better than other boys, but he could do things other boys could not. At our school he would have been a leader, for he had manliness and sense of responsibility. But he was a Catholic and took lessons from the priest. Instead of being the most popular lad in town, he was an outlaw. For the Scotch looked down on the Irish, thinking them feckless. On the other hand I loved them, and though I have all the dour qualities of my race, there is something of the Irishman in my heart.