Page 44 of A Fire in Their Hearts

D ESPITE THEIR KINDNESS AND brAVERY , Mary and Hugh’s small home began to feel like yet another prison and I increasingly chafed against the enforced captivity.

The large network of people in Orkney who support the Covenanter cause means that we’re always kept up to date with relevant news, so we heard soon after it had sailed that the Sophia left Stromness with the recaptured Covenanters.

That was in December, when I could barely get out of the box-bed.

My leg recovered slowly over the following months but my mind pitched like a ship in a storm, disappearing into the troughs of despair before rising to the light, only to drop back into the darkness.

Much of this period of my life is lost to me.

From what I do recall, that’s probably for the best. My poor, dear saviours.

It was one thing to look after a man so ill that he was little more than a child in most ways, quite another to try to calm a six-foot-three lunatic, ranting and storming around, smashing objects . .?. sometimes deliberately.

I remember occasions, when the Devil had left me, that I was so ashamed of my actions I wept upon Hugh’s shoulder, begging for his forgiveness. This gentle man held me like a son, forgave me like a son. Whatever they say to reassure me, I will feel that shame until I die.

It was during this dark period that news reached us of another survivor from the Crown of London , someone who had also evaded the sailors that terrible night and avoided being recaptured.

I became obsessed with meeting this man.

From the description of him it certainly wasn’t Violet or Calum, but my fevered mind was certain he had important information.

Apparently, this Covenanter hadn’t been injured and had been moved quickly from the area of the wreck by sympathisers, until eventually reaching the north end of mainland Orkney.

He’s settled there now and, although aware of my own presence, wishes no contact with me.

Hugh has stressed again and again that it would be dangerous for both of us if I were to try and track down this man.

I’ve eventually accepted that he is right, though I can’t help wondering at times.

Over the months people have brought clothes for me, often altered or made to suit my size, as well as other items so that I will be better equipped to journey where fate takes me and not look out of place. So on this day of July I say farewell to the two kindest people on earth.

‘You’ll always be welcome here,’ says Mary, who can hardly speak for crying.

‘There are no words that would be enough to express my gratitude.’

‘I know, peedie boy,’ she says, reaching up to wipe away some of my own tears.

Hugh and I simply hug each other for a long time, then I bend down to stroke Gunnar. It was the dog’s incessant barking that night which made Hugh go outside to investigate and discover me lying more dead than alive.

‘You saved my life. Sorry I thought you were the Devil.’

Gunnar wags his tail and licks my hand. I stand, pick up my satchel and go outside. The sun is shining and gulls wheel about the sky, screeching their familiar cries which sailors say are the spirits of those who have died at sea. I wonder if any are from the Crown of London .

There is a sharpness to the air and the keen wind carries the salty tang of seaweed, strong yet fresh and with it an unexpected sense of freedom. Freedom, even though I don’t believe I will ever leave these islands, in truth partly because I’ve developed such a terror of the sea.

I walk a short way then stop to look back at the couple standing in their doorway. They smile and wave. I smile and wave. Inside, my heart feels broken, but my life must take a different path. I set off briskly and don’t look back.

In my satchel I carry spare clothes and food.

A shoemaker in Kirkwall made me a pair of sturdy boots and, like so many other items, these were moved secretly from dwelling to dwelling.

People have also donated money and I’ve a good purse of coin tucked safely in my jerkin.

A knife hangs from my belt, as much a working tool as a weapon, though it will serve well as both.

I often wonder what happened to the Colvil family dirk.

My head is shaved as my ginger hair makes me too easily identifiable, too easily remembered by folk who might be against the cause.

Many men shave their heads and, with the addition of a bonnet, my appearance should not be a reason for comment.

All except my height, of course, which I can’t do anything about.

My destination is a manse in Kirkwall owned by a Church of Scotland minister who knows of my situation and will help to set me up.

In what, I’m not sure. Physically, I’m stronger than I’ve been in years and I’m not afraid of labouring work.

As I walk away I can’t help feeling the pleasure of being out in the countryside with the sun on my face, no longer injured, hungry or ill-treated, no longer a prisoner.

*?*?*

The Reverend Sinclair greets me warmly as he opens the front door and I follow him into the kitchen, where a fire burns brightly in the hearth.

It’s late afternoon on the day I left Deerness.

In an odd way it feels as though my time there was months ago.

He begs me to sit while he pours ale and produces cheese and bread, which I’m mightily grateful for.

He appraises me for many minutes with keen, intelligent eyes. I sit opposite him, eating in silence, having decided before arriving to let this stranger steer the conversation.

‘I’ve heard your story, Samuel, and am sorry for your loss,’ he says. ‘You’ve lost your wife and brother and many good friends?’

I stop eating. ‘Yes, Reverend.’ I pause for a long while and he waits patiently, sensing I have something I must say yet not rushing me. In the end, I can’t speak the words.

‘Perhaps you’ve lost something else. Have you lost your faith?’

I nod a silent confession to my greatest shame.

Tears run freely down my cheeks and I let them fall where they may.

A couple land on the white cheese in my hand, where they sit like raindrops upon a hard surface, uncertain where to go .

.?. like me. This is not something I’ve discussed, even with Mary and Hugh.

‘I think I began to lose it at Bothwell. Forgive me .?.?.’

‘You may say what you want within these walls, Samuel. I’m not here to judge.’

‘There was no sign of God’s presence on that battlefield,’ I blurt out, the words bitter on my tongue. ‘Covenanters were slaughtered like sheep and many survivors then rounded up and taken to Hell. Good people died that day and during the weeks that followed in Edinburgh.’

He nods slowly. ‘There was great sadness when the news reached us.’

‘With the other desperate events that followed it felt as though God had forsaken us all.’ I am silent for a while. ‘I was present when they hanged my father in Edinburgh’s Grassmarket.’

‘Ah, that I didn’t know. I’m sorry, Samuel.’

‘There were plenty who had lost hope and willingly signed the Black Bond to gain their freedom, including men I counted as brothers.’

‘But you didn’t?’

‘No, nor did my darling wife, Violet. Yet what good has it done me or her or any of us?’

I drop my head and run my hand across the bristles, recalling how Violet used to say it was so ginger that she could feel the colour.

‘The answer may not reveal itself for quite some time. Until then .?.?. well, try not to be too hard on yourself. I won’t sit here and tell you that God hasn’t forsaken you, regardless of what I believe, because you must discover this on your own for it to be of value.

Be aware that you might never find your faith again.

I’ve known that to be the case with some men. ’

‘What happened to them?’

‘Oh, they live their lives .?.?. good men still, but without God in their hearts.’

‘What can I do?’ I feel lost and that this minister has such integrity and wisdom that I would willingly follow his advice.

‘Mmm. Let us firstly talk of practical matters. You may stay in the manse for now. If anyone asks, I’ll say you’re the son of an old friend, travelling for adventure as men are wont to do.

I’ll square that lie with the Good Lord in my own way.

You need to change your name. There are many in Orkney who are against the Covenanter cause and will consider denouncing you to the authorities as their duty. ’

‘I’ll not lose my name .?.?. not Samuel.’

‘All right, but a different surname.’

That I should call myself by a name that is not my father’s seems disloyal, yet I can see the sense of it. ‘Violet’s surname was Milligan. I’ll use that.’

The minister nods at this. ‘A man taking his wife’s name .?.?. well, it’s less likely to trip you up if it’s one you’re familiar with. We’ll need to get you employment. What skills do you have?’

‘It was always expected that I would become a minister and in sixty-nine I went to Holland to train and be ordained.’

‘And were you?’

‘Yes, but upon my return to Scotland I couldn’t obtain a parish without swearing an oath and accepting the king as head of the Church. I never even preached, not once.’

‘You look strong.’

‘I’ll do anything .?.?. working on the docks?’

‘No, you’re educated and well-spoken. Some workers might be suspicious and wonder why a man from such a background was trying to be unnoticed. Better to hide in the open, though I would advise continuing to shave your head.’

‘Violet .?.?. Violet used to say my hair grew at the speed of a galloping horse.’

‘I’m sorry, Samuel. I can tell you this from my own experience as an old widower, you will always miss your wife. Every single day you’ll feel the absence of her presence. Have you prayed for Violet?’

The words are like knives thrown at my heart. Have I prayed? Yes, that night when the Crown of London broke up, then after .?.?. ramblings in my delirium, angry demands of God. I don’t need to reply. The Reverend Sinclair knows the answer.

‘Perhaps we should say a prayer for Violet. I think that might be a good way to begin your life here.’

And so we pray as I should have done before, but never did.