The Highwayman's Curse (7 page)

T
homas pointed at the hole. They meant for Bess to squeeze through the tiny passage. She looked at me. Then, biting her lip and taking a deep breath, she nodded.

“What shall I find?”

Jock spoke. “Crawl a few feet until your hands meet empty space. Then ye've to climb down no more than an arm's length and ye'll find yourself in another cave. And if Calum read the signals aright, and if we've no' been duped, ye'll find boxes. If there's no' any moonlight, call and we'll send a torch on the end o' a rope. Then, open the boxes and call to us.”

With one more look at the tiny opening, Bess crouched and then lay face down on the ground. Wriggling, she pushed her way into the hole, arms in front of her. I could hear her grunting as her legs slowly disappeared. Strangely, I felt my own chest become tight and yet the air where I stood was plentiful.

Now she was gone, and the only sound of her was the scuffling of the stones behind her.

“Let me go too!” I said. And I began to crouch down.

A hand grabbed my shoulder and Red's snarling voice came to me. “Ye'll go nowhere! Ye'll stay here. Ye think we'd trust the two o' ye?”

Their faces were grim and ghoulish in the torchlight. He was right. I could not blame them. For my part, I didn't fully trust them either.

Now Bess's words came faintly through the tunnel. There was excitement in her voice. “I see the boxes. And there's a little moonlight.”

Jock crouched down at the opening and called to her. “What's in the boxes?”

There was no answer for some long moments and then her faint reply. “Bottles. And small sacks, bags of something wrapped many times over.”

“Whisky and salt,” said Thomas, with pleasure in his voice. The men became excited, grinning. Billy jumped up and down like a huge child, punching the air with his fists. “Whisky and saut!” he kept repeating. “Whisky and saut!”

“Hush!” said Jock, and Billy obeyed. Jock called to Bess again. “Wait!” Now Red and Mouldy passed some ropes to Jock, each with a bag tied to the end, and a small stone in each bag, and he deftly threw them along the passage towards Bess. “Put the goods in the bags – no' o'er much in each – and shout when ye're ready.”

Some moments later – during which time I heard very little, save the heavy breathing and occasional sniffing of the men and the distant crashing of the sea – Bess shouted once more. “The bags are full!” And, very slowly and carefully, the men began to pull the ropes towards us. Soon, the goods were with us and the men quickly removed the contents, throwing the bags back for Bess to fill once more. The ground around our feet became covered with bottles and packages, until there was barely room to stand.

“Give us a hand wi' these,” said Mouldy and I followed his lead, taking as much as I could manage and carrying it to the main part of the cave, where we stacked everything. Several more loads were brought in this way, until at last Bess called that there were no more. Some moments later, her hands appeared at the opening and two of the men pulled her towards us, slapping her on the back as though they had forgotten she was a girl.

Red no longer treated her as he had before – there were no lascivious looks now. Perhaps he had accepted Jock's decision – but I think it more likely that all of them now had thoughts only for their smuggled cargo and the money they would get for it. And Bess had been part of that.

There was now a great deal of good humour and laughter among the men. Bess turned to me and spoke quietly. “Another cave lies through that hole, not as big as this, and opens onto the sea. There's no beach, just an opening in the cliff face and the water right against the rock. I suppose a boat had landed the goods there at high tide. It is clever, very clever!” Her eyes were shining.

I did not know what sort of life we were falling into, or what would happen now, but I was glad that both of us had proved our worth. It would be some weeks before Tam's arm had recovered sufficiently to do such arduous work. We were of value to these men and I hoped our value would serve us well. If not…

Jock, I saw, was sitting down, seeming suddenly tired, rubbing his temples. He gestured for the rest of us to put the goods into the large sacks, which Mouldy, Red and Billy had brought from the cottage. Red exchanged a glance with Thomas, as if to see if he had noticed their father's weakness. Thomas stared back at Red.

But soon we were being hurried again, climbing back up the steps into the main cave, Jock bringing up the rear. Every man carried a sack or two swinging over his shoulder, loaded with several bottles and packages of salt. Bess and I did the same, imitating every action of the men. And now we must return along the passageway. I tried not to think of the gap over which we must jump.

Tiredness and hunger began to overwhelm me now. I trudged along the steep passage, doing my best to carry my load carefully – for I had no wish to incur their anger if I damaged it.

I think perhaps my head had not fully recovered from its injury, for I know no other reason to explain the strange visions and voices that crowded into my mind as I walked. My head, my thoughts, seemed to float above my body, and the crevices and deep splits in the rocks around me tangled my vision, so that a kind of madness danced before my eyes. Into my dizziness came the faces and voices of my parents, my sisters and my brother. They were laughing at me, as they had so often done before. Their laughter still hurt me and I could not shake it off.

I had left my home because of hatred and anger. Later, when I had discovered my father's corruption, I had taken revenge and at the time it had felt good. But had it changed anything? Still I hated my father and what he had done. Were revenge and punishment ever the end? Would evil not then go on and on, a twisting line of pain, until the memory of what had begun it had faded into dust?

I had thought that what I had done was just and proper. But now – now, I was carrying smuggled goods for some whisky-soaked men mired in a brutal poverty on the wrong side of the law. Was that just and proper?

I wished to do right, even to change some evil in the world. But I was powerless, driven by the actions of others.

For the moment, there was no other course but to be led. To wait.

But I would not be satisfied with only this for ever. There must be a better way to live. There must be something of worth I could do.

With these confusing thoughts, I stumbled with Bess and the other smugglers, along the passageway and back to the places where we must leap across the jaws of the sea once more.

T
he leaps back over the spouting waves were a little downhill, and easier. Besides, the tide had fallen further and the sea no longer threatened us. The men had a routine for passing the bags across the abyss on ropes and before long we had safely crossed the openings and were soon making our way up the steeply sloping passage until we came to the rungs set into the wall. We left the goods at the bottom and began to climb.

The trapdoor was open and Jeannie and Iona waited for us. We were greeted with food and mugs of a thin ale. The mood was warm and festive and I allowed myself to drift into its comfort.

Jeannie seemed concerned for Jock, who went straight to bed, pain etched in his face.

I tried to put my earlier confused thoughts away from me. For the moment, I could do nothing. For the moment, for a few days at least, I must stay here.

There was one thing useful that I could do, and that was to ensure that Tam was comfortable. His face had a warmer colour now, not the pallor of approaching death. He was awake, though lying still in the bed. When he saw me, he even smiled and I confess I was glad to see this.

“Thank ye!” he whispered suddenly. Were these the first words he had spoken since his injury? Jeannie was beside me now. She touched my shoulder and smiled.

“Aye, he has found his speech again and he has tellt me all. He said the men who killt his grandfather were nothing like ye and your friend. And if ye had no' brought him here, he would be dead for sure. I kent ye were no murderers, but the others, they were no' sure. And now ye must stay. Ye can have the cottage that Old Maggie and John had together. 'Tis too big for her alone and she needs the company, the way she is, and there is plenty o' space. 'Tis just o'er the yard and…”

I knew not what to say and I let her chatter on while I tended to Tam, adjusting his bindings. I had no wish to stay. Nor did I think that Bess would relish the thought of a grim life with these people.

Soon, we all slept, for there was still some while till morning light. To my surprise, I slept deeply and peacefully, without dreaming, through sheer exhaustion, I suppose.

When I woke, Jeannie was sweeping the floor of the dwelling. Early sunshine streamed through the open shutters.

Bess was sleeping beside me and I stared at her resting face for some moments. As if aware, she opened her eyes then and smiled at me, raising herself up. We both found water to wash our faces in and quite soon we were dressed. None of the men was there, as far as I could see.

Old Maggie sat, smiling happily to herself at something. It was as if she suffered no memories of the fact that she had learnt of her husband's murder only a day before. Perhaps Old Maggie was happier than anyone, understanding nothing. And yet, what life was that?

As we returned to the fire, Old Maggie turned to look at Bess, seeming to see her for the first time.

“Who are ye?”

“My name is Bess.”

“Bess. Bess.” The old woman seemed to roll the name round in her toothless mouth and in her mind. “'Tis a strange name for a lad.”

“I am no lad,” Bess replied. “I dress sometimes as a boy because … it is easier.”

“Aye, well.” And she touched her scarred face, though her eyes told of no emotion.

“Will you tell me your story?” asked Bess now. Jeannie heard her and looked little pleased.

“No, she will no',” she said firmly.

Maggie's mouth twisted into the raw anger of a small child. I had seen my youngest sister do this, before her governess had taught her that she must not show her feelings so. And now my sister, all my sisters, sat straight-backed and kept their lips closed hard like oysters, merely tilting their little chins and controlling the colour in their faces so that nothing more than a tight rosebud of anger prickled under their cheeks.

“I will so!” said Old Maggie now. I wished not to listen. The old woman disturbed me, with her ancient anger and how she kept the fire of it stoked till the flames blazed as high as ever. I feared the chasm of her mind, empty of all the things she should know – her husband's death, her children's births, her grandchildren's lives. The here and now. The present and the future meant nothing to her as much as the ancient cause of her anger.

And it seemed to me wrong, and ugly. I found her ugly, too, her wrinkled face like the skin on a bird's leg, the terrible stretched scar gouged from her other cheek, her twisted eye, even her hair like a ghostly halo. I did not like that she was so old and yet so like a child. She made me uncomfortable.

So I wished not to listen. But her voice drew me in, weaving a web around me until the sound of it was held close around my head, weaving its way inside my ears.

Its power was hard to resist.

O
ld Maggie told of the day they came for her parents, and she only seven years old and trying to hide in her young mother's long skirts. She told of the feel of the thick woollen material against her face and the smell of her mother, the smell of all mothers. She told of the marsh gentian they had been picking for medicine when the men came and how her mother had dropped the purple flowers, scattering them as she ran back to the house with her daughter, as the soldiers clattered in the yard and as they shot her husband while he knelt and prayed.

Maggie had heard the shot and seen her father twist and fall, surprise on his face. They had taken her mother and thrown her on a cart with Maggie clinging to her. Other women had been on that cart but, when they reached the beach and saw the thick salt marsh with the tide coming in, all but two had sworn the oath to the King. Her mother and one much older woman had not.

Maggie told of how she had been torn from her mother, and how she had stood in water as the tide swept higher, dumb with fear and confusion and disbelief – still thinking of the scattered flowers and the waste of it – her bare feet sinking into the silt on a soft summer day, a tiny breeze ruffling the water, the wavelets lapping as they stroked her skin.

Her mother's eyes had been wide with fear but she would not swear their oath. Silently, her mother had stood waist-deep in the sea, chained to a wooden stake. Her skirts and bodice had been ripped from her and she stood only in her undergarments, white and drifty. The other woman was similarly tied a few feet away. This woman, the older one, shouted abuse at the soldiers. Her shift was torn and her bony shoulders and thin arms were exposed. As Maggie spoke, I could picture them, like the twigs on a winter tree.

For an hour Maggie's mother stayed silent. Then the soldiers had brought Maggie to her, wriggling and screaming above the thickening water, and had threatened to burn the child's face if her mother would not swear the oath to the King. But her mother had not done so, because God was watching her and God would keep her safe or take her to a place of peace.

And perhaps she did not believe that the men could be so cruel.

Many people then had shouted to Maggie's mother, telling her that she should save her daughter and that God would forgive her, but her mother had not listened. Because she knew that it is by God's grace that we go to Heaven and not because of the things we do or wish for. She had stayed strong.

Maggie understood none of this but felt her mother's love and knew that God did indeed watch over her because if her mother said so then that must be right. Then Maggie had seen a light settle above her mother's head, a soft glow, warm, fluttering, flickering like a candle in an evening breeze.

The soldiers put Maggie back on the beach and she was carried away from the water by some other women. They had planned to take her where she could not see what was happening, though Maggie twisted round in their arms and saw the waves lapping at her mother's throat now. The strengthening breeze began to whisk the surface of the water and she could see her choke and splutter as a wave washed over her mouth.

Now some of the soldiers, who had been throwing insults at the two women, came for Maggie. They tore her from the arms of the women who carried her. When a woman tried to fight back, a soldier slashed her across the face with the back of his hand and the woman was thrown off her feet, landing hard on the ground. Blood dribbled down her chin.

Maggie did not like the way they touched her, these men, with their hard fingers on her bare skin. It was as they touched her that one of the soldiers shouted the curse and Maggie did not know if it was meant for her or her mother.

I watched old Maggie's face as she told this story, her words making sense, her thoughts in order, as they usually seemed not to be. Her eyes were alive now, her voice strong. It was as though she was no longer a very old woman. It was as though she was still there, all those years ago, living through every moment, every detail. Keeping it alive.

Her story had not finished. As she told the rest, I became unaware of everything around me, of the people and the smells and the spitting fire. All of it receded into nothing as I listened to the end of her story. And as she spoke, I pictured everything as though I had been there.

The soldiers had quickly built a fire. Maggie understood nothing of what they did. She thought perhaps they were wishing to warm her, for she was indeed cold. She shivered through her thin dress, her bare feet painful in the cold. Still she could see her mother, distant now in the water, the waves at her chin, sometimes lapping over her mouth as she desperately stretched her face skywards. Maggie did not cry. She could not.

A soldier's sword lay in the flames of their fire. She wondered dimly at this. Why did he put his sword in the flames? She struggled to make sense of everything around her. Why was she with the soldiers? Why were they smiling at her? Why were the other women standing some distance away, huddled in a group, with other soldiers watching them?

And then two of the soldiers had gripped her at the elbows and their hands felt huge. She thought that if they were not careful they might snap her arms. Another soldier had held her head and another had picked up the sword from the fire. She gasped. It had turned bright orange! She had never seen such a thing!

The soldier came to the side of her head, where she could not see him properly. Still the other soldier held her head tightly. One of her ears was trapped painfully, pinched between his fingers. She wanted to tell him, to tell him not to hold her so tightly. That he was hurting her.

Then a fizzing sizzle, followed by her shriek of pain. Her scream took everything else away, all the pain and all her breath. She fell into a swoon.

But soon, she knew not when, she awoke and when she looked out to sea her mother was not there. Only the rough waves, licking and spitting. And the sun not shining any more.