Page 14 of A Fire in Their Hearts

M OTHER AND I ARE PREPARING a meal when we hear Hamish cry out.

We rush to the door but Mother quickly pushes me behind her so that I’m largely hidden from the dozen men who have appeared outside the house.

Hamish is sprawled on the ground before them, and Father hurries over from the barn to help him before addressing the one man on a horse.

‘What’s the meaning of this?’

The man, who is obviously in charge, replies curtly, ‘You’re to provide accommodation for three men. Make sure they’re fed and looked after well .?.?. or you’ll be in even more trouble.’

My stomach clenches. We’ve heard terrible stories of these rough men.

It’s rumoured there are ten thousand; Highlanders plus militiamen from the Lowlands, with orders from the Privy Council to inhabit the south-west of Scotland and hunt for rebels, collect unpaid fines and prevent conventicles taking place.

No house is spared, from the meanest hovel to the grandest estate.

Folk are mistreated regardless of age, health or status.

Most women are terrified and husbands, fathers, brothers and those in authority, even ministers, protect them at their peril.

Without any further conversation, the men outside move off, leaving three figures behind who stare aggressively at Father and Hamish.

‘Dear Lord above, are they human?’ I whisper.

All wear the fèileadh-mòr, the tartan material so filthy it’s difficult to see where it ends and blackened knees begin, while their wild faces are so bearded that it’s doubtful their mothers would even recognise them.

They look like devils. Two of them are huge, but it is the smallest one who conveys the greatest sense of evil.

‘Violet,’ whispers my mother. ‘Leave quietly by the back door and hide in the woods until one of us comes to get you.’

‘What about you, Mother?’

‘They’re not interested in an old woman like me.’ She squeezes my hand, but I feel a tremor in her touch; a tightly leashed fear. ‘I’ll be fine, but you’re in great danger now.’

*?*?*

It’s been three days since the Highlanders took over the house.

Samuel and I keep to the barn with my parents.

Hamish has remained, sleeping on the floor by the fire.

They enjoy humiliating him, but apart from a black eye he’s so far been unhurt.

The Reverend Colvil, his wife and Calum are living a few miles away and trying to be unnoticed by anyone in authority.

Samuel left at first light this morning on yet another Covenanter mission.

Since his return from Holland two years ago, he has gone away on many occasions, usually for several weeks, helping famous field preachers like the Reverends John King and John Kidd move safely from place to place.

Often I don’t know what he’s doing or where he’s gone, much like when he was in Holland training to be a minister.

The loneliness during this period was a constant knife to my soul, even though I was with my family.

We wrote, of course, and a small bundle of letters would arrive perhaps twice a year, often tattered, stained and frayed at the edges, passed on from stranger to stranger – friends, though we didn’t know them.

I would hide away for days reading them, weeping over them, my heart filled with joy and breaking at the same time.

Father grumbles as he, Mother and I huddle over a hunk of bread that Hamish has been able to smuggle out to us.

‘The government is so desperate to prevent our religious meetings,’ he says, ‘that it’s brought in Highlanders because they have such a long-standing hatred of those in the south-west.’

The bread is hard, old, but at least it’s food. Poor Hamish – he’s already been made to kill three of our chickens and endure the added humiliation of having to cook and serve them to the Highlanders, waiting upon the table as if they were lairds and he a servant.

‘I’m worried that Hamish is going to strike back in anger and he’ll be seriously hurt, or worse,’ says Mother.

Father sighs, shaking his head. ‘I fear you’re right, Isabel. Tomorrow I’ll take his place. They won’t find me so easy to intimidate and I can put up with their abuse better than a young man.’

Samuel slips into the barn. He kisses me as he sits down and I hand him his portion of bread.

‘They’re searching every dwelling, hut, cave and barn, looking for named individuals, weapons and valuables,’ he tells us. ‘We’re only just managing to keep ahead of them.’

‘The Reverend Cargill?’ asks Father, clearly worried.

‘He’s safe, Douglas. We’ve got people keeping watch throughout the area and we would all give our lives to protect him.’

‘If the heathens caught such a leader in our cause as Donald Cargill, it would be a dark day indeed.’

‘The Highlanders are beating up folk trying to get them to reveal the hiding places of those they’re searching for. Old McGregor was in a very bad way after they had finished with him. He didn’t tell them anything, though.’

‘He’s as tough as dried-up leather,’ says Father. ‘If they’d attacked him twenty years ago, he would have had them fleeing for their lives, the cowards. I wish I was twenty years younger and able to use a sword as I used to.’

‘Any weapons they’re not keeping are being broken up,’ says Samuel.

‘Where’s your dirk?’ I ask, noticing that he’s not carrying it around his belt as normal.

Samuel points to a place at the back of the stall that the two of us are using, having cleaned it out once the cow had been moved into the adjoining stall.

‘It’s behind that plank there, out of sight but easy to reach if needed urgently.

I’ve managed to speak to Hamish. They’re smashing up furniture in the house to burn rather than use logs that are stacked and ready. ’

‘They’re going to destroy what they can’t later take,’ says Mother.

‘Yes,’ agrees my father. ‘Destroy, steal and punish us for our commitment to God.’

‘You must continue to keep out of their sight, Violet,’ my mother urges me. ‘You hear such frightful stories.’

Samuel drapes an arm around me and draws me in protectively.

‘They’ll be out tomorrow searching for conventicles.

We’ve spread a rumour that Reverend Cargill is holding a sermon about five miles east of Cronberry.

Scores of people are going to head in that direction early in the morning, making sure they’re seen while pretending they’re trying not to be.

They all have instructions on where to split up and secretly make their way home.

The Highlanders shouldn’t be anywhere near the real conventicle over by Failford. ’

‘The Reverend Peden’s old site in Coilsholm Wood was well chosen for its remoteness,’ says Father. ‘Hidden from eyes that might otherwise betray those attending.’

‘I’ve heard much about his preaching,’ I say.

‘An inspirational man,’ says Father, nodding appreciatively. ‘He nearly died during his captivity on the Bass Rock. Well, let’s pray that there’s no violence tomorrow.’

‘And pray that these demons will be gone before something terrible happens to one of us,’ adds Mother, ‘because I fear we cannot continue for much longer without such a thing occurring.’ The glance she casts in my direction makes my soul shiver.

*?*?*

The three Highlanders have gone along with all of the others nearby.

They’re like dogs on the scent of a bitch in heat, so certain they’ll find a large crowd to attack and be able to capture the famous Reverend Cargill.

Samuel, Hamish and my father have gone to the real one near Failford, leaving Mother and me to go through the house and see what we can salvage without it being too noticeable.

Like most people, we had put our coin in a safe place, burying it in the woods well in advance of the arrival of this rabble.

We just hadn’t realised how destructive the Highlanders would be and now regret leaving any valuable items in the house at all.

It’s late in the morning and I’m in the barn trying to find a suitable place for a small but precious painting of my grandparents.

I’ve wrapped it carefully in a cloth. When I hear a noise behind me, I turn, expecting to find Mother with more retrieved items to hide.

My blood goes cold at the sight of the smallest of the three Highlanders.

‘You’ve been keeping out of our way, haven’t you, girl? That’s not friendly, is it?’

He takes a step towards me and I move back, frantically trying to work out what to do. I’ve never spoken to one of these men, and although I speak Gaelic, I hadn’t realised how difficult their accents are to understand.

‘Why are you here? Haven’t you heard about the conventicle?’

‘I thought we were hearing a bit too much about the conventicle. You Lowlanders think we’re all stupid .

.?. whispered comments and snatches of conversation that were always just enough for us to catch.

Well, I’m a suspicious bastard and didn’t believe there wasn’t something going on here, so I turned back.

And look what I find .?.?. not a man in sight and you hiding your treasures.

Where’s the traitors’ meeting really taking place? ’

He’ll easily catch me if I try to run around him to reach the door. The only potential weapon is the hayfork, but that’s by the entrance.

The dirk!

If I move into the stall and can’t reach it, then I’ll be completely trapped. His curiosity about the conventicle is overcome by his greed.

‘What’s that you’ve got?’

He’s not rushing me and instead is enjoying the game, like a cat with a mouse.

‘It’s a painting of my grandparents.’

I back away slowly, getting closer to the open gate of the stall, then decide this needs to be done quickly. I throw the bundle into the air, right at him.

‘The frame is really valuable. Here.’