Ken Follett - A Place Called Freedom (1995)

Mack was flummoxed. Surely they would not simply go on as if nothing had happened?

The pastor said: “Let us sing the final hymn.”

Sir George returned to his seat. Mack remained standing, unable to believe it was all over.

The pastor said: “The Second Psalm: ‘Why do the heathen rage, and the people imagine a vain thing?’ ”

A voice behind Mack said: “No, no—not yet.”

He looked around. It was Jimmy Lee, the young miner with the wonderful singing voice. He had run away once already, and as a punishment he wore around his neck an iron collar stamped with the words This man is the property of Sir George Jamisson of Fife . Thank God for Jimmy, Mack thought.

“You can’t stop now,” Jimmy said. “I’m twenty-one next week. If I’m going to be free, I want to know about it.”

Ma Lee, Jimmy’s mother, said: “So do we all.” She was a tough old woman with no teeth, much respected in the village, and her opinion was influential. Several other men and women voiced agreement.

“You’re not going to be free,” Sir George rasped, standing up again.

Esther tugged at Mack’s sleeve. “The letter!” she hissed urgently. “Show them the letter!”

Mack had forgotten it in his excitement. “The law says differently, Sir George,” he cried, waving the letter.

York said: “What is that paper, McAsh?”

“It’s a letter from a London lawyer that I’ve consulted.”

Sir George was so outraged he looked as if he might burst. Mack was glad they were separated by rows of pews; otherwise the laird might have got him by the throat. “You have consulted a lawyer ?” he spluttered. That seemed to offend him more than anything else.

York said: “What does the letter say?”

“I’ll read it,” Mack said. “ ‘The ceremony of arles has no foundation in English or Scottish law.’ ” There was a rumble of surprised comment from the congregation: this contradicted everything they had been taught to believe. “ ‘The parents cannot sell what they do not own, namely the freedom of a grown man. They may compel their child to work in the mine until he reaches the age of twenty-one, but’ ”—Mack paused dramatically and read the next bit very slowly—“ ‘but then he will be free to leave!’ ”

All at once everyone wanted to say something. There was an uproar as a hundred people tried to speak, shout, begin a question or voice an exclamation. Probably half the men in the church had been pledged as children and had always considered themselves slaves in consequence. Now they were being told they had been deceived, and they wanted to know the truth.

Mack held up a hand for quiet, and almost immediately they fell silent. For an instant he marveled at his power. “Let me read one more line,” he said. “ ‘Once the man is adult, the law applies to him as it applies to everyone else in Scotland: when he has worked a year and a day as an adult he loses his freedom.’ ”

There were grunts of anger and disappointment. This was no revolution, the men realized; most of them were no more free than they had ever been. But their sons might escape.

York said: “Let me see that letter, McAsh.”

Mack went up to the front and handed it to him.

Sir George, still flushed with anger, said: “Who is this so-called lawyer?”

Mack said: “His name is Caspar Gordonson.”

York said: “Oh, yes, I’ve heard of him.”

“So have I,” said Sir George scornfully. “An out-and-out radical! He’s an associate of John Wilkes.” Everyone knew the name of Wilkes: he was the celebrated liberal leader, living in exile in Paris but constantly threatening to return and undermine the government. Sir George went on: “Gordonson will hang for this, if I have anything to do with it. That letter is treason.”

The pastor was shocked at this talk of hanging. “I hardly think treason comes into it—”

“You’d better confine yourself to the kingdom of heaven,” Sir George said sharply. “Leave it to men of this world to decide what is treason and what is not.” With that he snatched the letter out of York’s hand.

The congregation were shocked at this brutal rebuke to their pastor, and they went quiet, waiting to see how he would react. York held Jamisson’s gaze, and Mack was sure the pastor would defy the laird; but then York dropped his eyes, and Jamisson looked triumphant. He sat down again, as if it were all over.

Mack was outraged by York’s cowardice. The church was supposed to be the moral authority. A pastor who took orders from the laird was completely superfluous. Mack gave the man a look of frank contempt and said in a derisive voice: “Are we to respect the law, or not?”

Robert Jamisson stood up, flushed with anger like his father. “You’ll respect the law, and your laird will tell you what the law is,” he said.

“That’s the same as having no law at all,” Mack said.

“Which is just as well, as far as you’re concerned,” Robert said. “You’re a coal miner: what have you to do with the law? As for writing to lawyers—” He took the letter from his father. “This is what I think of your lawyer.” He tore the paper in half.

The miners gasped. Their future was written on those pages, and he was ripping them up.

Robert tore the letter again and again, then threw the pieces in the air. They fluttered over Saul and Jen like confetti at a wedding.

Mack felt as grief-stricken as if someone had died. The letter was the most important thing that had ever happened to him. He had planned to show it to everyone in the village. He had imagined taking it to other pits in other villages, until all Scotland knew about it. Yet Robert had destroyed it in a second.

Defeat must have shown in his face, for Robert looked triumphant. That enraged Mack. He would not be crushed so easily. Anger made him defiant. I’m not finished yet, he thought. The letter had gone but the law was still the same. “I see you’re frightened enough to destroy that letter,” he said, and he was surprised by the withering scorn in his own voice. “But you can’t tear up the law of the land. That’s written on a paper that’s not so easily ripped.”

Robert was startled. He hesitated, not sure how to respond to such eloquence. After a moment he said angrily: “Get out.”

Mack looked at Mr. York, and the Jamissons did the same. No layman had the right to order a member of the congregation to leave a church. Would the pastor bow the knee, and let the laird’s son throw out one of his flock? “Is this God’s house, or Sir George Jamisson’s?” Mack demanded.

It was a decisive moment, and York was not equal to it. He looked shamefaced and said: “You’d better leave, McAsh.”

Mack could not resist a retort, though he knew it was foolhardy. “Thank you for the sermon on truth, Pastor,” he said. “I’ll never forget it.”

He turned away. Esther stood up with him. As they started down the aisle, Jimmy Lee got up and followed. One or two others stood, then Ma Lee got to her feet, and suddenly the exodus became general. There was a loud scraping of boots and rustling of dresses as the miners left their places, bringing their families with them. As Mack reached the door he knew that every miner in the place was following him out of the church, and he was seized by a feeling of fellowship and triumph that brought tears to his eyes.

They gathered around him in the churchyard. The wind had dropped but it was snowing, big flakes drifting lazily down onto the gravestones. “That was wrong, to tear up the letter,” Jimmy said angrily.

Several others agreed. “We’ll write again,” said one.

Mack said: “It may not be so easy to get the letter posted a second time.” His mind was not really on these details. He was breathing hard and he felt exhausted and exhilarated, as if he had run up the side of High Glen.