Trailblazer

By Roderic Anderson

Trailblazer is a novel based on the lives and times of the author's great grandparents and their family. From their farm in Scotland in 1851 they migrate to South Australia by sailing ship, Join the gold-rush to Ballarat, where they strike gold, pioneer the timber and flour-milling industries and participate in pre-federation politics.


It is an appealing look into Australia's past, an adventurous tale that captures the true spirit of these Scottish immigrants who forged a place in Australia's history Trailblazer gives an accurate picture of the life and social conditions in the second half of the 19th century.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Roderic Anderson
• Release date: Jan 21, 2012
• ISBN: 9781465871497

Roderic Anderson

Roderic Anderson's writing career started in Nigeria in 1978, when with Joyce Dafe he wrote a children's story book which Joyce illustrated. It was later published by African Universities Press as Omaka to the Rescue in the same series as books by Chinua Achebe, Cyprian Ekwenzi and Michael Crowder. AUP also accepted for publishing a series of chemistry text-books he wrote, Understanding Chemistry : a student's book and a teachers' guide for each year, Nine to Eleven, but `due to the political situation and financial constraints' they have never been printed. He is currently working on the last of a series of books. The first, Trailblazer, a novel based on the lives of his great grandparents, has been published in 2008 by Zeus Publications. The second, another novel, Real Life Portrait , based on the lives of his parents was published as a hard-back in October 2010 by Big Sky Publishing, and the third, Well of Life, is a memoir up to age 18, The fourth, Free Radical, another memoir up to age 36, he self published in 2006. All of these works are now available as ebooks. Besides writing, reading and listening to chamber music, being a long-term Marxist and socialist, he is interested in TV documentaries and current affairs and regrets that he is too old to participate in the Australian extension of the Arab Spring, hastening the end of capitalism.

Book preview

Prologue

Southern Ocean,

1851

Emigrants, besides braving the hazards of pioneering a strange wild country, had to endure a long sea voyage by sailing ship

James lay wide awake in his bunk, flung back and forth and from side to side. Sleep was impossible as the little barque pitched and tossed in the mountainous seas: he felt as though he was riding an unbroken horse. In the other bunk lay his wife, her teeth chattering with fear as well as with the cold. He tried not to watch the sickening spiral motion of the lantern hanging from the ceiling. For days now, they had been confined in the cramped little cabin that stank of stale sweat and vomit.

Every time Reliance staggered out of a trough with her bow pointing skyward as she mounted another wave, the following sea submerged her stern, and water spewed into their cabin from around the deadlight clamped over the porthole. Even inside, the noise of pounding sea, shrieking wind and the battered ship straining every fibre became ear-splitting. Surely this crescendo could not continue. The clamour must have reached its climax.

Besides being scared out of his wits, James felt imprisoned and helpless. In a way, he envied the crew. Though they must be soaked to the skin, half-frozen and nearly swept off their feet in the full screaming fury of the storm, at least they could see what was happening and they were actively fighting to keep the ship afloat and on course, while he had to lie here like an old man on his death bed. Perhaps his bunk would be his bier.

Suddenly Reliance shuddered like a sapling struck by an axe. Above the shriek of the tempest, he heard a sound like a pistol shot followed by the crack of splitting timber. James shivered. That sounded like a mast splintering. The gallant little ship could not survive much more of this battering. Almost three weeks had passed since they had sailed from Cape Town, so they could not be far from Adelaide. It would be a cruel fate indeed that would destroy them after all they had been through, so close to their destination. Was this cabin to be his coffin?

Why had he left a safe, comfortable life in Scotland for this fetid box, likely to plunge to the bottom of the ocean at any moment? Even if he did reach South Australia safely, his future there was far from certain. And he had led his whole family into this. He knew very little about the young colony: his expectations there were based on hope rather than on facts. If he did not make a success of the venture there, he would have to creep back home, and face the terrors of the return voyage.

1

New Cumnock, Scotland

1837

What a perfect day ! James thought. One of those rare balmy summer days, ideal for idling by the river. . If only his younger brothers, David, John and Will, weren’t there, all this would be James's idea of heaven, fishing in Afton Water..He inhaled deeply, relishing the familiar smells of the countryside. Earlier in the day a shower of rain had fallen, and now the air smelled of moist earth, dead grass and the heady fragrance of summer flowers. A gentle breeze was stirring the leaves of the willows, barely ruffling the grass, and only a few scattered feathers of white cloud drifted across an otherwise clear cobalt blue sky

He loved this private retreat of their own down the hill from the farm, a picturesque stretch of Robbie Burns's 'sweet Afton' where the stream widened out into a gently flowing pool. By the bank the shallow water softly murmured over rocks but further out it was quite deep. Willow trees enclosed it and patches of purple heather and yellow broom lined the banks. James felt contented, serene and secure, enjoying the work free Sabbath.  Although Pa made him do what he saw as his fair share of the farm work after school and through the holidays, on the Sabbath, more from custom than belief, none of the family did any work other than essential chores.

Last Sunday when the boys had come here they had been caught in a sudden thunder storm. On their way home, soaked through to the skin, with not a single fish between them, John, clumsy as a new born calf, had tripped and fallen into a fresh dollop of stinking cow dung, leading to a terrific kerfuffle when they reached home. Will was the only one actually fishing. Unusually single minded for a ten year old, quietly concentrating on the job in hand, he was casting a fly where he had seen a ring on the surface of a fish rising and a shadowy movement beneath. So engrossed in his occupation, he was oblivious of the others. John and the family dog, Ben, had both disappeared, David was fiddling with flies and James was lying  on the bank. Tall for his fourteen years, slim and gangling with a thick thatch of unruly brown hair. He lay stretched out on his back with eyes closed, completely at ease, basking in the sun's warmth and listening to the sounds around him. Nearby, with the stream burbling and grasshoppers whirring in the background, a wren trilled the same little run of grace notes over and over, from the opposite bank a blackbird went through his repertoire of melodies, and from high overhead a lark sang its shrill song.

`Hey, look what I ha' caught!' The excited shout came from the river.  James sat up to see Will lift a fine trout onto the bank, a golden beauty, glistening and iridescent.

What a gorgeous creature ! he thought as he watched it fighting for its life.

Will roughly removed the hook from its mouth and, grasping the fish firmly by the tail, callously killed it by dashing its head against a stone. The corpse lay still. James could not bear to watch.  He was looking away across the river, at the insects darting and hovering over the water and rising fish making circles on the surface like heavy drops of falling rain. As he watched, a fish rose with a faint splash, clear and sharp above the gurgling of the stream.

Will had seen it too. 'I ha' fixed a fresh teal and red fly for a bigger one this time,' he said. Standing up, he cast the fly so that it touched the water a little upstream.  It floated down with the current into a ring, a small snout poked up, the fly disappeared and the line tightened as the fish bore down. 'I ha' hooked him! He's hooked!' shouted Will in his high thin voice. James tried to help him land the fish. 'Stand back, bide arf, Jamie, while I bring him in.'  He soon had him landed on the bank, another beauty weighing over a pound, as fat as butter. 'Hold your squirming and twitching,' squealed Will, trying to grip the slippery fish.  `Ye're as slithery as an eel.'

James decided to try his hand at fishing again and joined Will, but further upstream. 'Pass me that spare rod and the flies,' he called to David. Carefully he attached a fly to his hook; then cast it towards a ring on the water. A sunbeam passing through the trees overhead shone on the ring at the instant the fly touched it. There was a sudden flash of gold as a trout snapped at the bait, but it had missed it. James deftly cast again.

Before the fly reached the stream, a great trout streaked out of the water and fell back with a splash taking it with him. James played the fish skilfully; then reeled in his line and hauled him out of the water, a magnificent two pound specimen dripping rainbow drops of water, glittering like spangles in the sunlight. The biggest trout he had caught or seen anyone else catch in the Afton. Too squeamish to kill such a thing of living beauty himself, he let Will deal with it while he received the others' congratulations. From somewhere close by he heard John shout, 'Jamie, that's the biggest trout I ha' ever seen.

James looked round to see where the voice was coming from, but he could not see John anywhere. Eight year old John, independent and adventurous, was in the habit of going off on his own, and suddenly re appearing in the most unlikely places. 'Here I am.' John's voice came from above. Looking up, James saw him climbing along a branch of a willow tree overhanging the river. A skinny little boy with black tousled hair and thick eyebrows that ran together.

Now he had some spectators, John tried to stand up on the branch, but missed his footing, slipped and fell. His breeches caught on a small branch; he hung suspended by the seat of his pants for a moment before the cloth gave way, and he dropped into the stream with a loud splash.

Pandemonium reigned: John splashing and spluttering, the other boys all shouting at once, and Ben who had suddenly appeared out of the bushes, yelping and barking excitedly. John flapped and floundered his way to the bank where James and David each grabbed an arm and hoisted him up onto dry land.

'John!' shouted David, very much the superior elder brother, 'Ye daftie! Brainless as a headless chicken! Every time we come here ye do som’at daft. Ye ha' scared awa' a' the fish, drenched a' your clothes, and torn your breeks. Mither'll be in an unco' kippage wi' ye'.

'W ... W ... W ... Why're ye making such a fash. I ... I ... I'm n ... n...no' hurt, o ... o ... only a bit wet,' said John, none the worse for his ducking, but though he was putting on a brave front, his stuttering betrayed his concern. He stood there shaking himself, like a dog after a bath.

'Ye're drenched from your top knot to your toe!' said James. `Ye look like a drowned rat.’

'I'll soon dry out.'

'Ye'll catch your death o' cold in those wet clothes, and ye canna go home like that.’ James told him to undress, wring the water out of them, and spread them out to dry. Taking off his shirt he handed it to John. 'Here, tak' this, and wipe yoursel' dry wi' it; then sit o'er there in the sun and out o' the breeze. We can stay here only anither hour or so. Though your clothes willna be dry by then, they willna be dripping wet.

John did as he was told while the others spent the rest of the afternoon fishing, but they did not catch any more, because as David had said, the disturbance had frightened the fish away. As they walked home from the stream, with John shivering and his boots squelching, they discussed the best tactics for protecting him from their mother's wrath.

'W ... W … Whatever I do,' said John, 'sh...sh ... she"ll find out the truth sooner or later. I ... I ... I might as well own up straight away.'

'It'd be better, ' suggested Will, 'if ye wait till ye know she's in a good mood; then tell her.'

‘I'll go in first wi' the fish,' said James. 'I'll keep her talking in the kitchen while ye sneak upstairs and change into dry clothes. Then ye come in and offer to clean the fish for her. When ye give her the gutted fish to cook she'll be pleased, and ye can then say, 'By the way, Mither, I had a wee bit accident. I caught my breeks on a bramble and there's a wee rip in them.'

By the time they had agreed on this plan they had reached the gate.  John went through the garden to slip in by the front door and then dash up the stairs, while the others went round the back to enter through the kitchen. On the way they passed their sister Ann, milking Bess.

James paused, appreciating the familiar scene; the fourteen-year-old girl, daisy fresh in a blue and white gingham dress with white cap and pinafore, seated on a three legged stool, with a pail between her knees, her head against the sleek cow's warm flank, milk spurting into the pail at each stroke of her hands. As she worked she sang in a soft contralto,

The ploughman he's a bonny lad,

His mind is ever true, jo,

His garters knit below the knee,

His bonnet it is blue, jo;

Sing up wi'ta, the ploughman lad . . .

James took up the song, changing ploughman  into milkmaid ,

'And hey the merry milkmaid ,

0' a' trades I do ken,

Commend me to the milkmaid.’

Ann had not heard the boys approach and she was embarrassed at being caught unawares. 'That disna even rhyme, and ye needn't misca' the milkmaid,' she snapped.  'Somebody has to do the work while ye boys play.'

Will started the chorus again, 'Sing up wi't a', the milkmaid . . . '

He stopped abruptly as a well directed squirt of milk straight to his mouth caught him in mid verse. 'That's eno' fro' ye, ye wee bit squirt!' said Ann, and carried on with her milking.

Their father had been watching the boys return from the river. A tall well-built man, with one foot on the bottom rail and his elbows resting on the top one, he was leaning on the fence of the kaleyard after yarding  the cattle ready to take to Ayr market in the morning. He anticipated an enjoyable day in town and hoped to get a good price for his cows and dairy produce.

He stood up straight as the boys approached and his ruddy face became stern. "Tis about time ye lads showed up. Though 'tis the Sabbath, there's still work to be done. Ann's near finished her share o' the milking. How many fish did ye catch?'

`Six trout,' replied James. 'Will caught three, John and David one each, and I caught one, a real whopper.'

`At least ye ha’ no’ wasted your afternoon,' replied his father. `They'll make a tasty supper,' Then noticing that John was not with them he asked, 'Where's John?'

'He's gone inside a'ready,' replied Will, by this time having wiped the milk off his face and recovered his dignity.

John was unlikely to avoid his father unless he had something to hide.  'He must be in a hurry,' said Pa. 'Why's he shanked off?  I'll wager he's up to something; he's soaking wet or he's torn his breeks.  Ye'd better get these

fish scaled and gutted ready to cook.'  He turned away to fill the feed boxes with hay.

When the boys reached the kitchen they found John standing in front of their mother. Tall and sturdy, wearing a plain high-necked grey dress with a white collar, she was sitting by the table.  'So why ha' ye changed a' your clothes then?' she demanded severely, looking him straight in the eyes which were level with her own. 'John, I wasna born yesterday, jo. I know ye wouldna change a' your clothes and come in here sheepish and guilty looking if ye'd only torn a wee hole in your breeks.' It was impossible to escape those cool grey eyes, usually so kind, but now so penetrating.  `Now ye run along upstairs and fetch me down every stitch ye were wearing when ye left here for the river this afternoon.' John scuttled out of the room, glad to escape, even temporarily.

His mother, adjusting the combs holding up her thick black hair, turned to the other boys. 'Hello Jamie, Willie. Ye're late back, but ye two dinna look as though ye ha' suffered any mishap. I suppose ye ha' been putting off leaving the river till John's clothes were dry enough to put back on.'  She stood up. `Jamie, as the oldest; I expect ye to look after t’ither three. Ye know as well as I do if ye tak' your eyes off John he'll fa' in the water, trip over, or I dinna ken what. Probably ye were day dreaming in the heather while John climbed a tree and fell out o’ ‘t into the water.'

James stood there open mouthed, taken aback at his mother's perception, or was it second sight?

How can she know that? He swung round on Will. 'Ye dirty little sneakl' As soon as he said it, he realised Will could not have told her. Will had been standing beside him with milk on his face while he was speaking to Pa. Mother just knew what they did without actually seeing them or hearing them, and Pa had said he'd wager John had fallen in the water. That wasn't a guess; he knew! His parents must have second sight.

'Oh Jamie, dinna blame Willie,' said Mother. 'Nobody told me, and I ha' no supernatural powers. I grew up wi' six brothers and wi' six sons I ken the tricks lads get up to. I heard John's boots squelching on the stairs, and one look at his face told me the rest o' the story. She moved across to the bench by the sink. Now let me see the fish ye ha' caught.'

Much relieved at the change of subject, James opened the creel, proudly and carefully laying the fish on the bench. Though an impressive array they were no longer fresh and glistening, and they felt gummy like cold porridge. 

'Willie caught all these, these two are Davie and John's,' and like Mary showing baby Jesus for the adoration of the Magi, he displayed his prize, 'I caught this one.'

'What a braw trout, Jamie! Ye caught a' these, Willie? There's enough here for a good satisfying supper for us a'.' Sara turned to John who had crept quietly into the kitchen and was standing in the background, trying to escape his mother's attention. 'John, take these out and gut them at the pump in the yard,' she said, getting a knife out of the drawer. As she was handing it to him, she noticed the wet clothes he was holding and her voice became severe. 'Afore ye gang awa' let me see these duds o' yourn. Argh! Put these boots by the ingle to dry, no' too close to the fire, or ye'll crack the leather; the sark and stockings can go to the wash. Now let me look at these breeks.'

John reluctantly handed them over. She held them up to the light, revealing a huge rip. 'Hout, they're a' muddy as well as torn. Is this what ye ca’ a wee rift?  Ye could put your head through it. Well, I canna gi'e ye new breeches every day. Ye'll just ha' to wear these wi' a big patch, and if the other lads tease ye, it should teach ye to ha' more care.

Ye're to stay away fro’ the river for the rest o' the summer, d'ye hear.  If your father sees these he'll thrash your dowp.'

Poor John looked so crestfallen that she softened. Lifting up his chin, she bent down and kissed him on the cheek. 'Now be off wi' ye, and make a good job o' those fish,' she said.

* * *

The family usually took their meals in the kitchen, a big homely room with a high oak-beamed ceiling. A large table and chairs occupied the centre, a huge dresser holding plates, bowls and other tableware lined one side and a big open stove, surrounded by copper pots and pans, took up the end of the room. As they sat down to their supper that evening the room was bathed in a soft glow of lamp light reflected from the gleaming copper and crisply starched white table cloth.  Pa, his broad shoulders and muscular arms more evident when he was seated, took his place at the head of the table, the boys down each side. Mother and Ann did not spend much of their meal times sitting at the table; mostly they were on their feett waiting on the menfolk, so they sat at the other end, handy to the stove, scullery and larder. Five-year-old Robbie and three-year old Tom had already had their meal and were playing upstairs.

Sara brought in a large steaming dish of fish she had cooked by coating in oatmeal, frying in butter, and sprinkling with parsley; Ann placed two big bowls of potatoes and vegetables on the table. Pa said grace: 'For what we are about to receive, we gi'e thanks to God.'

`What about thanking us boys,' said John, who had recovered his usual high spirits. 'We caught the fish.'

`That's eno’, ye young heathen!' snapped David.

'Oh, Davie,' said Ann, 'ye're too pious for the rest o' us,' turning her wide grey eyes on him, 'are ye going to be a parson?'

'God forbid!' said Sara. 'I hope ye wouldna do anything so daft.'

`This is as fine a bit o' fish as I ha' ever tasted,' said Pa. `'Tis early days yet, but ye'll ha' to start thinking about your careers. Since ye're the eldest, Jamie, the farm'll be yourn when I'm under ground, but at the rate they're burrowing underground for coal about here, soon there'll be precious little farmland left.' He looked round the table at his other sons. `I dinna ken about the rest o' ye lads. There're pit heads and mullock heaps appearing everywhere like an outbreak o' the pox. A new pit opened on Bruce Clark's fallow only this week. There's plenty o' useful work to do in a variety o’ trades.'

The conversation lapsed as Sara and Ann cleared the table; then James broke the silence by saying quietly, 'I think I'd like to be an engineer.'

'A what?' asked John and Will together.

'An engineer,' said David slowly and distinctly.

'Weel, what is an engineer?' asked Ann.

'A man who designs, builds, or looks after engines or machines, designs and builds bridges, roads, ships and things.'

'Ye could build a bridge over the river for John to fish from,' said Will, 'then he wouldna fa' in the water.'

'Ow!' from Will, as John did something to him under the table.

'Eno’ o' your higgling!' said Sara.

'Why,' asked William, 'isn't Pencloe good eno’ for ye? 'Tis one o' the best farms in the district.'

'I dinna mean any disrespect to ye nor the farm, Pa, but there's a great big wide world out there offering wonderful opportunities in this modern age o’ industry.'

'There should be plenty o' work near here for an engineer,' said Sara. 'They're building a new cotton mill at Catrine, a flour mill at Cumnock and there's the iron works at Lugar. Every village's getting new industries, and there's also the new Dumfries Glasgow road.'

'Ay,' said William, 'everywhere the towns are spreading into the quiet countryside; there's precious little real countryside left, wi' these roads and mines and mills. Industries a' producing things faster and cheaper. Everybody wants to move so much faster: 'tis a' rush, rush, rush. I'll stick to the slow old country ways, but ye're young, and if times're changing ye'd better prepare yoursel' to meet the change. Is this really what ye want, ,jo?

'Ay, it'd be a fine profession, Pa, but 'tis a long course o' study. I'd ha' to go to Edinburgh for a few years.'

Sara looked with raised eyebrows at her husband who answered her unspoken question. 'I think we can manage that. I'll look into it, and we'll see what can be done.'

* * *

The family retired early because Pa had to leave for Ayr first thing in the morning. While Sara was still undressing, William, already in bed, was lying on his back with his big hands resting on the counterpane, watching her. 'Why do women always wear so many garments?' he asked. 'Ye ha' a braw body for a woman o' near forty, Sara; 'tis a shame to hide such a trim figure under a' those petticoats when ye look so much more attractive in a shift. But I suppose if ye revealed it, a' the young bloods o' the district'd be after ye.  Nobody'd tak' ye for the mother o' seven bonny children. Hurry up and come to bed, lass, and let me hold ye.'

'In a wee while, Will.'  With her back to him, she was looking at him in the mirror as she brushed her let-down hair. `But first I want to talk to ye seriously about our children. As ye said at supper, we ha' to think about their future and prepare for it. 'Tis a relief Jamie disna want to settle on the land, but what about t'ither lads?'

'Ye're right; only one o' the lads'll be able to tak' on farming here; the others maun do something else.'

She turned to face him. 'What about Jamie?'

`The farm’s bringing in eno' money to pay for his training and support him till he qualifies, so his career's assured.'

'And what about t’ithers?'

'Next it'll be Davie's turn. If he wants to study for some profession, Jamie should ha' his papers and be earning by then, so we'd still only ha' to worry about keeping one at university.'

'Are ye sure we can manage it? And what o' Will and John?'

'One o' them could tak' on the farm if Davie disna want it. If they both want to go to university, they may ha' to wait a year or two. There willna be anything left o'er for extravagant luxuries, but wi' your canny housekeeping we'll manage a' right, e'en comfortably.  Davie and the younger lads dinna yet ken what they want to do.  If they a' want to be farmers, we'll ha' to pack four o' them off to America or Australia.'

'What!' said Sara, horrified. `Wi' wild savages, or convicts and bushrangers? Neverl'

'Dinna worry your pretty head about it now. Come to bed.'

'Ay, Will,' she said as she got into bed and hugged him. 'Hold me, hold me tight. I wish ye didna ha' to go to Ayr tomorrow.'

'I'll be back afore sundown on Tuesday, hinny,' said William, stopping her mouth with a kiss.

2

At the table in the kitchen Sara sat mending John's breeches, while Ben stretched out in front of the fire. The sun had set long since, but William was not yet back from Ayr. She was becoming anxious. Ben seemed to sense her unease. At every sound from outside he raised his head and pricked up his ears. 'Ye're nervous Ben,' she said.  `Tis only the fowls squabbling. Ye're wondering what's become o’ Will.' She looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. 'He should ha' been home long afore this. I'm getting worried too.'  Ben came over and put his shaggy head in her lap, looking at her with his soulful brown eyes. 'Are ye trying to comfort me, or are ye asking me for reassurance? I expect 'tis a bit o' both. We both need comforting and reassuring. I do hope nothing's happened to Will.' She folded up the patched breeches and put them over the back of a chair.  'Weel, I'd better gi'e wee Robbie and Tom their supper, and put them to bed.' She went out into the passage calling, 'Robbie! Tom! Time for supper.'

'Good, I'm starving,' a high piping voice replied from somewhere upstairs, 'may I bring Steenie wi' me?'

Sara hesitated. She disliked having Robbie's pets in the kitchen, but during his convalescence she was prepared to relax her strict rules to some extent.  'A' right, but watch out for Ben, and be quick.'  She returned to the kitchen and busied herself with the boys' meal. Robbie was normally an active five-year-old but after being kicked in the ankle by a horse, his sore leg could not bear his weight, so he had to get about on a crutch. He soon hobbled into the kitchen with Steenie, his pet field-mouse, on his shoulder.

'Ye were quick, and I didna hear ye thudding down the stairs, jo,' said Sara. `Where's Tom?'

Robbie was inspecting John's mended breeches. `I slid down the banister,' he said.

Sara turned on him sharply. 'When I asked ye to be quick, I didna ask ye to break your good leg! Now come and ha' your supper!'

Three-year-old Tom appeared in the doorway. 'Where's Pa?' he asked.

'No' back from Ayr. He's very late. Now dinna play wi' that mouse at the table, Robbie. Put him back in his box and wash your hands afore ye eat.' Tom ate his food noisily without speaking. While she put mutton and vegetables on his plate, Robbie was watching Steenie.  To her amazement, he said,

'Wee sleekit, cowerin' timrous beastle

What a panic's in thy breastie .'

What's that?' asked Sara.

'That,' said Robbie in a superior tone, 'is the start o' a poem by Robert Burns.'

'And where'd ye learn it?'

'Ann read it to me.'

"Tis a lovely poem; ye should get Ann to teach ye the rest o't, and when ye go to school this year ye'll learn how to read it for yoursel'.'

'I wonder how Steenie'll like school.'

'Ye'll no' be able to take Steenie to school wi' ye; he'd no' be welcome there, even less than in my kitchen. Ye must leave him at home in his box. Now hurry up and finish your supper. Tom's finished his. `Tis time for bed.'

While Sara was upstairs after saying goodnight to Robbie and Tom she heard a clatter of hooves in the yard and Ben's excited barking.

Thinking it was William, she ran downstairs to welcome him, but when she flung open the back door, she was surprised to see the shorter, thick-set figure of their neighbour, Andrew Mackie, putting his reins over a fence post.

'Why, Andrew!' she exclaimed with a welcoming smile, trying to keep out of her voice the alarm she felt. She added, as politeness required, 'This is a pleasant surprise, but I thought ye were William, back from Ayr.'

Andrew did not reply. His manner and unwillingness to speak told Sara that some catastrophe had befallen Will. As he approached and she could see his face in the light from the kitchen, her fears were confirmed. He walked slowly up to her and it seemed an age before he replied, his deep voice even more solemn than usual, 'Sara, I ha' some uncommon bad news for ye.'

Quelling the panic rising in her breast, she said, 'Will?

'Ay, let's go inside and sit down afore I tell ye a' about it.'

'Oh, my God,' she sobbed.

As soon as they were seated by the kitchen fire she said, 'Tell me!'

'Will's been attacked and robbed.'

Her heart missed a beat. 'Badly hurt?'

Andrew stood up, and moving behind Sara's chair, put his hand gently on her shoulder. 'Very badly, Sara.' His voice faltered. 'Your gudeman is dead!'

Ever since darkness had fallen and Will was long overdue Sara had been preparing herself for this news, but that hardly lessened the shock.

She did not utter a sound, but he felt her body quiver, become tense for several seconds and then relax, before he continued, 'He was shot through the heart and died instantly. He suffered no pain.'

Sara sobbed softly, 'Oh Will! Will! How could they do this to you?’

Then she remained perfectly still with her hands folded in her lap, staring blankly into the fire. There was no sound but the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece and an occasional crackle from the burning coal. The silence continued for a long time, Sara motionless, staring into the fire.

Eventually Andrew broke it. 'I hate myself for bringing ye such a terrible message,' he said. Sara did not move or raise her eyes. 'Thank ye Andrew,' she said. 'Now please leave me.'

Poor Andrew felt helpless and useless, but he said, 'Isna there anything ... '

Sara interrupted him, saying more firmly, 'No, there's nothing, there's nothing that anybody can do. Nobody can bring Will back to me. Thank ye . . . Please go.' Andrew, sensing she had reached her limit of self-control, and he could do nothing to help, quietly left. When the door closed behind him, Sara rocked gently back and forth in her chair. Then suddenly she uttered a cry of despair, rushed upstairs, threw herself on the bed, and burying her face in the pillows, gave vent to her grief and sorrow.

* * *

Next morning two men from Coylton brought Pa's body back home in a highly polished oak coffin on a trap, and laid it on the table in the parlour where the family gathered. Mother had regained her composure, though her eyes were red from weeping. All the children were quiet and subdued. William's death had not yet registered with James. He could not believe that his father was dead and that he would not come in and take his customary place in the armchair by the fireplace.

* * *

Andrew Mackie and Ewan Urquhart, from 'Strathcairn', the other side of the brae, had arranged the funeral for the following day. They were the first to arrive, Andrew, quite at ease but Ewan, awkward and uncomfortable, his normally jovial face set in a serious, sad expression.

Then the rest of the neighbours, shopkeepers and tradesmen from the village and the minister, thin as a skeleton and with his long cadaverous face, looking like it was he they should be burying. Mrs Mackie and Mrs Urquart were busy in the kitchen preparing plates of food that James and Ann

passed round with drams of whisky while everyone spoke in stifled whispers.

The undertaker removed the lid of the coffin and the mourners filed past for a last look at Pa's body. Mother was sobbing quietly into a handkerchief. It was not until James's turn came, looking at that still, lifeless face, that he realised Pa was dead and he would never see him again. It was hard for him to picture Pencloe without Pa. He was strict and made you do your share of work, he leathered your dowp whenever he thought you deserved it, but he was not slow to give a pat on the head for a job well done, and when you got him in a good mood he would listen to what you had to say. Pa had worked tirelessly wringing a living from the land to feed, clothe and educate his family. What would happen now without Pa?

James, with Andrew, Ewan, and lain Burns of Glenbowie, carried the coffin to the kirkyard. Rain had been threatening all day, and as soon as they passed the yew trees marking the kirkyard boundary, a fine misty drizzle drifted in from the Irish Sea and a flight of lapwings rose, crying like souls in torment. James caught his breath and he felt a tight, numb sensation in his stomach. A wind sprang up from the west, driving the rain in their faces and making the coffin bearers stagger.

Standing at the graveside, James pulled up his collar and closed his coat lapels in front, but it was poor protection. The grave was bright red clay, gaping like an open wound. The Reverend Thomson, with a broken umbrella shielding his prayer book from the driving rain, began to read.

James heard the words promising resurrection and everlasting life through Jesus Christ our Lord. Pa's soul, the difference between the vital, living man and that pathetic remnant in the coffin, might achieve eternal life, but James now accepted that Pa had gone forever. He would never see him again and his presence had vanished from Pencloe. For the first time since he had heard of Pa's shooting, James cried bitterly.

He felt someone gently grab his hand. It was the grave digger who put his hand on the rope lowering the coffin into the grave. His mind was on Pa and what a good father he had been, so through his tears, he barely realised what he was doing. The minister's voice droned, `Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,' and somebody nudged him and put a handful of wet earth into his hand. He threw it onto the coffin. It rang with a hollow, empty sound. Had Pa really ascended into heaven?

* * *

Back in his room at Pencloe after the funeral, having completely accepted the fact of Pa's death, James considered his own position. What was to become of him? Would he have to leave school and work on the farm? He loved Pencloe and life on the land with its sights, sounds and smells, but at school he had gained a glimpse of a wider world. If he could continue with his education he could have a far more exciting life. Maybe Mother would sell up and they would all move into a town, perhaps even Edinburgh. Would there be enough money to pay for his further education?

3

Andrew Mackie returned to Pencloe from the funeral to talk to Sara, red-eyed and distraught. 'I owe ye an apology, Andrew,' she said. 'I'm sorry I sent ye away so rudely the other day when ye were being so kind and understanding. Now I want ye to tell me a' about it.'

'That's a' right. I understand your feelings. Are ye sure ye feel up to talking about . . . ?'

'Ay, Andrew, I want to know exactly what happened.'

He decided to spare Sara the details of William's actual death; he would tell her only the events leading up to it. 'On his way home from Ayr,' he said in his deep voice, 'he was set upon, attacked and robbed a short way past the Coylton cross roads; ye know that part where there're thick woods on both sides o' the road.'

'Ay, I expect they were after the money he'd be carrying.'

"Will and I both stayed overnight at the Tam O'Shanter Inn. After selling our cattle and other produce, we met in the tap room and had a meal together. Will left straight after the sale; he'd finished a' his business in Ayr, and had no cause to stay on. I had to get some medicine for a sick horse, then go to Belleisle to call on my sister Meg to see her new bairn.

I wanted Will to come with me or wait for me at the Inn, but he decided to return home alone, as he was anxious to get back to his family.' 

Sara stifled a sob. 'They must ha' hid in the trees by the roadside, and waited for your gudeman to come along.'

'Very likely,' replied Sara. 'D'ye think there's any hope o' catching them?'

'The police are investigating.'

'I ha' no' much faith in the peace officers and constables. Whatever they do, or anybody else does, willna’ bring back my Will. One day I'll go to him, but he'll no' return to me.' She sat looking at the cheerless empty fireplace, finding it hard to hold back the tears.

Since the minister and the other mourners had left the house, Sara had maintained her composure, but now she was struggling not to break down and weep. To hide her distress she stood up and walked to the window, keeping her face turned away from Andrew.

She gazed out at the rain drenched fields and the grey louring sky. The sombre view calmed her. She flung open the window to let a breath of fresh air into the stuffy room and inhaled the sweet scent of honeysuckle beneath the window and the smell of sodden earth and wet grass: the smell of the land that folk had farmed and tended since time immemorial. Her forebears and Will's had cared for and been supported by this land for centuries, maybe millennia. The land was permanent, it would last for ever. Her present trouble and the lonely aching emptiness she felt would pass. Everything passes in time. Nothing but the land endures. Though continually changing with the seasons and by the hand of man, the land was forever. She could never leave this life of long toiling days, the acrid smoke of wood fires and the sweet milky smell of the cattle. She was held here; she could never leave it.

Andrew stretched his stout legs and crossed them at the ankles. He was watching Sara, looking at the profile of her fine head. Her face, with its aquiline nose and full lips, was handsome rather than pretty. She'd make a bonny wife, he thought, but, as he already had one,