Graeme Burnet - His Bloody Project

I felt quite affronted to hear Mr Thomson abuse Mr Sinclair in this way, but I did not think it prudent to enter into debate with him.

‘Nevertheless,’ he continued, ‘as I have travelled some distance to examine you, we should get down to business.’

The gentleman got to his feet and carried out a minute examination of my person, all the time making notes in a little book he must have brought for this purpose, and now and again muttering to himself as he went about his task. No animal at market has ever been subjected to such an intimate inspection, but I submitted to his various proddings and instructions without demur.

His examination complete, he resumed his seat, again resting his foot on my bunk. ‘I now propose to put some questions to you, which I would be obliged if you could answer as fully as you are capable,’ he said. ‘Mr Sinclair has assured me that you have a good grasp of language and are able to express yourself quite lucidly, so let’s see, shall we?’

I found my gaze wandering to the gaoler, who was stationed behind Mr Thomson and showed no sign of following the gentleman’s conversation. His eyes were directed towards the small window high on the wall above me and I reflected again that it must be quite as unpleasant for him to be confined within these walls as it was for me. My eyes wandered towards the window and after some time I became aware that I had not been following the questions which Mr Thomson had put to me. I returned my gaze to him. He had taken his foot from my bed and was sitting stiffly as if his back was giving him trouble. He fell silent and then stood up. The gaoler stood aside and Mr Thomson left without bidding me good day. The gaoler closed the door and turned the key in the lock. I felt then that I might perhaps have treated the gentleman with some discourtesy. I did not regret doing so for his sake, as I had not taken to him from the outset, but I felt that Mr Sinclair might be disappointed in me and for that I felt some remorse.

* * *

My father did not speak to me for several days after the Gathering. I do not know if he had heard about my antics at the inn, but in our community few events go unnoticed or unremarked upon. Jetta, too, addressed me only when necessary, and when she did it was in a curt tone to which I was not accustomed. Whether this was due to her disapproval of my behaviour or on account of some troubles of her own I cannot say. Our meals were eaten in silence and the atmosphere in the house was blacker than ever. There was a general sense of dread, as if we were all aware that events were soon to draw to their conclusion.

I nightly expected the appearance of Lachlan Broad at our threshold, but he did not come. However, the knowledge that our visit to the factor and my foolish advances towards his daughter would not go unanswered weighed heavily on me. It is not the blow that causes greatest distress, but the anticipation of it, and I existed at this time in a state of anxiety which increased with each passing day. I was not called upon to work on any of Lachlan Broad’s schemes, and neither he nor any of his kinsmen so much as ventured beyond the junction of the village. I was quite certain that what was in store for us was not the raising of some petty fine, but the culmination of the constable’s campaign against us.

I passed as little time as possible in the house. The days I spent pulling weeds and attempting to improve the prospects for our harvest, but I did so half-heartedly and if I downed tools and wandered off, my father did not question or chastise me. In the evenings I took myself into the hills and sat looking down on Culduie. Viewed from far above, the township seemed no more than a child’s toy. The people and livestock were no larger than specks of ash and it was difficult to credit that anything which occurred there was of any consequence. I thought of what lay beyond the mountains, of the great cities to the south, and, to the west, the vast Atlantic with its promise of Canada. I found myself wondering if I might after all make a new life for myself. In one thing Flora was quite correct — there was nothing for any of us in Culduie. Why then should I stay? All that was required was to set out one morning and never return. This was, at first, no more than an idle thought, but in the hours I spent on the Càrn it began to take hold of me. I was not yet a prisoner. There were no walls to prevent me from striking out. I need only set one foot in front of the other. First to Camusterrach, then on to Applecross and then over the Pass to the metropolis of Jeantown.†† From there, I might catch a boat or simply continue walking. I would bid no farewells. Nor would I formulate any plan, for beyond the Pass I knew nothing of the world. Over a period of days, this idea thickened within me until it had assumed the proportions of an irresistible force.

†† Jeantown is the former name of the village of Lochcarron.

And so it happened that on a perfectly ordinary morning, I left the house and made my way down through the rig, clambered over the dyke and set off. I did not acknowledge to myself that I was leaving. I told myself I was merely setting off towards Camusterrach. From there I might continue or turn back. I had taken no possessions or even food, for to do so would be to admit to myself what I was doing. I said nothing to Jetta and I did not allow myself to think, as I watched her stirring porridge at the swee, that I would never see her again. As I reached the brow of the hill which would take Culduie out of view, I resisted the urge to look back. In order to empty my mind, I counted my steps aloud and in this way I walked the mile to Camusterrach. There I passed Reverend Galbraith on the road. He did not greet me and I wondered if, later, when I had not returned, he would recall seeing me.

At the outset I ambled along unhurriedly, but as I left Camusterrach behind, my pace increased. As the distance between Culduie and myself grew, I experienced a feeling of lightness. When I reached Applecross, I realised I had been running, and so as not to draw attention to myself I slowed to a walk. My progress along the village was observed by a few crones stationed on benches outside their houses. Then, as I neared the inn, I spotted Archibald Ross on the road ahead, in conversation with a thickly bearded man I recognised as the blacksmith. A dog circled at their feet. Not wishing to meet my friend, I stepped into the gap between two houses. After a few moments, I craned my head around the quoin. Archibald was now approaching, the dog at his heels. There was no escape to the rear of the house, so rather than be discovered lurking between the houses, I stepped out, adjusting my breeches as if I had been relieving myself. Archibald did not seem the least taken aback to see me appear in this way.

‘Well, the pugilist returns! That was a fearful beating you took,’ he said, laughing. ‘But no disgrace in it. The fellow was twice your size.’

I did not say anything.

‘What business brings you to Applecross?’

I told him that I was on an errand for my father.

‘An errand?’ he repeated. ‘What kind of errand?’

‘A family matter,’ I said.

‘I see,’ he replied gravely. ‘And you do not trust your friend with the particulars? Well, never mind. I am sure you will not refuse me the pleasure of your company for a glass of ale.’ He jerked his thumb in the direction of the inn.

I knew very well that if I entered the inn my resolve would swiftly dissipate and excused myself from Archibald’s invitation.

‘I cannot believe,’ he protested, ‘that your errand can be so pressing that you would leave an old friend high and dry.’

‘I must go to Jeantown,’ I said.

‘But that is eighteen miles away,’ Archibald exclaimed. ‘You cannot think to walk that distance over the Pass.’