Page 5 of A Fire in Their Hearts

H AMISH AND I GLANCE AT each other nervously across the table.

We’ve been planning this in secret for weeks but now we’re about to announce it to our families my mouth is almost too dry to speak.

Everyone has finished their meal so it’s now or never.

I stand up, in my haste knocking over my chair, which clatters loudly on the stone floor. It certainly gets everyone’s attention.

‘Samuel?’ says Father.

‘Hamish and I intend to help the Covenanter cause, to stop the king forcing Presbyterians to worship in ways that go against the Scriptures.’ I had expected comments, but everyone remains silent.

Violet’s silence is almost thunderous. She doesn’t know any of this.

‘So we’ve decided to leave in a few days’ time and let God guide our feet to a destination where we can make a difference. ’

‘Hamish,’ says his father. ‘Are you set on this course of action?’

Hamish stands, visibly bridling at the implication, which in truth is often made, that he always follows my decisions.

‘Yes, Father. Sam and I are equally determined.’

Everyone turns to my father – everyone except Violet, who continues to stare at me. I pluck up the courage to give her a quick smile. The gesture is not returned.

‘If Samuel and Hamish feel that they will be doing the work of God by making this journey, then it is not for us to hold these boys back,’ he says.

With that simple statement, we are free to leave. But I’m quaking inside at having to face the girl I love.

*?*?*

‘You could have discussed this with me!’

Our meeting is not going well. Violet and I have left everyone and come to the barn, where she’s pacing around with increasing agitation.

‘It wouldn’t have been proper to do that before speaking to my parents.’

‘Just what do you think you and my brother can do?’

‘I don’t know! I just know that I can’t stay here and do nothing except listen to stories of violence against innocent people who can’t protect themselves.’

‘And you’ll fight?’

‘If I have to.’

‘What about Hamish? He’s doing this because you are, Samuel. You know that. It’s not in his nature to fight.’

I don’t reply because what she says is true. Violet’s twin would be happier tending to animals and working the land.

‘Please stop pacing around. Hamish has the right to make his own decision. Violet, stop!’

She faces me, panting hard with emotion.

‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but I have to do this, Violet.

I have to stand up to the tyranny of the king, the injustice of bishops telling us how to pray, the violence of the Royalist army killing people where they work in the field without any sort of trial.

Even a witch could expect a court case.’

She’s crying now. I take her in my arms.

‘What sort of man would I be if I didn’t do something? What sort of minister could I hope to become in the future? I’m not even sure I want to be a minister in the Church that we’ll end up with if we don’t make a stand to prevent these changes.’

‘If you or Hamish are hurt .?.?.’

‘I promise I’ll watch out for him. And I want you to look at me with pride .?.?. on our wedding day.’

She pulls back. ‘Our wedding day!’

‘Of course, didn’t I say? Once Hamish and I have returned, we’ll get married. We’re not going to be away for ever.’

‘Samuel, that’s about the most unromantic proposal a girl could get!’

‘But you’ll say yes?’

She doesn’t. Instead, she buries her head in my chest and bursts into tears.

*?*?*

13 November 1666, Kirkcudbrightshire

Parting from our families had been a great deal more upsetting than Hamish and I had imagined.

We weren’t allowed to leave until we had as much food as we could sensibly carry, spare warm clothing plus some coins in our pockets.

The most astonishing gift for me was from my father, who handed into my keeping the Colvil family dirk, the weapon made long ago by a skilled ancestor.

With nothing to guide our feet except the belief that God will take us in the right direction, we’ve headed south-east. Finding shelter has so far been easy with so many sympathetic to our journey and our spirits are high as we approach the outskirts of a village.

‘What’s this place?’ says Hamish, as if I am somehow to know.

I ask the first person we meet, an elderly man carrying an armful of whins and twigs, no doubt for the fire from which smoke drifts reluctantly through the thatched roof of his tiny dwelling.

‘It’s the clachan of Dalry,’ he replies, stopping to study us with an amused expression that instinctively makes me like him.

‘Do you need a hand around your cottage?’ I ask.

‘Ha, I suppose you two want food.’

‘We’ll help for the pleasure of helping, though we wouldn’t want to insult you by refusing your kind offer.’

‘I haven’t offered.’

‘My mother says I’m too optimistic for my own good!’

This sets him off cackling, which turns into a coughing fit. We have to wait for him to recover.

‘Well, ginger head, you can bring in the rest of those logs, and you,’ he says to Hamish, ‘chop up that wood over there.’

‘Don’t let him eat everything,’ says Hamish, happily going off to complete his given task.

The cottage is similar to what can be found throughout Scotland, with one room to eat, sleep and live in.

The small fire in the centre gives out little heat.

There’s a flimsy wooden partition that separates this area from a place where animals would live throughout the winter.

I can tell straight away by the smell that there has been no livestock for a long while.

Despite his age, the occupier is sharp-eyed.

‘I’ve known too many seasons to keep animals, so it’s easier to obtain milk or whatever I need from others who have some to spare. We look out for each other around here.’

‘We don’t want to take any food that you need yourself, sir.’

‘I don’t often get called that. You’re heading east?’

‘Yes, with no particular destination other than where God guides us.’

He goes quiet for a while and when he speaks again there is no humour in his voice. ‘You carry a Bible?’

‘No.’

‘Good. You don’t want to be caught around here with one. The king’s—’

His sentence is interrupted by shouting.

When we go to investigate we’re faced with four soldiers and a corporal.

Two of the soldiers step forward, roughly taking hold of the old man and tying his hands behind his back with rope they have ready for the task.

Hamish and I are so stunned at this sudden aggression that we’ve no idea what to do.

‘Keep out of this, lads,’ the old man instructs us. ‘Don’t get into trouble because of me.’

In silence, we follow the group as it heads further into the centre of the village.

People join us and soon there’s a noisy crowd clamouring for the old man’s release.

As we near the alehouse, four men emerge on to the street.

Although they appear extremely unkempt, as if they’ve been sleeping rough for a considerable time, the way they stand so erect and look about them with an air of confidence conveys a sense of privilege that immediately sets them apart from the ordinary villagers.

‘Why have you bound this man?’ asks one, stepping into the path of the corporal.

The two soldiers holding their victim continue to head towards the nearby blacksmith’s forge. Hamish and I go with them, though we can clearly hear the angry exchange behind us.

‘Don’t you dare challenge my authority here,’ replies the corporal. ‘That filthy traitor has been fined for not attending the kirk and he’s refusing to pay. He’s about to find out that you can’t defy the king.’

The blacksmith looks up in surprise as our small group enters his enclosure and I glance back to see the corporal, flanked by the remaining two soldiers, striding quickly towards us.

If they’re attempting to leave everyone else behind, it’s certainly not working as more folk join the mass of bodies headed by the four men from the alehouse.

‘Get on with it!’ shouts the corporal as he reaches us.

One soldier pulls down the old man’s jerkin to bare his thin, hairy chest, while from a knapsack another produces a short branding iron, the sort of implement used to mark the ownership of cattle. He thrusts the end into the glowing coals.

‘What’s the meaning of this?’ asks the blacksmith, a huge man who, I suspect, is not intimidated by many.

‘This man will be marked for his disloyalty and if he’s got any crops they’ll be destroyed as well.’

‘You’ll not use my forge to brand a man.’

‘Swords!’ shouts the corporal.

Everything that happens next is driven by instinct, with no thought to consequences, at least not on our part.

As the men from the alehouse tackle the corporal and three of the soldiers, Hamish and I grab the one nearest to us.

Several villagers immediately join in the scuffle, dragging the soldiers into the street and tying them up.

Hamish and I are left by the forge, so I untie the old man and help pull up his jerkin.

‘Thanks, ginger head,’ he says quietly to me. ‘Let’s see what the Wanderers are going to do after this.’

Now I understand who the four men are. Wanderers – nonconformists who are usually forced to live as vagrants, hiding in the hills and depending upon food and aid from others. Some forgo their inheritance, including substantial estates and fortune, because of their belief in the Covenanter cause.

‘Who’s the one in charge?’ I whisper.

‘John Maclellan of Barscobe Castle,’ he says. ‘He’s been avoiding the military for quite some while.’

‘Well, they’ve certainly met each other today,’ I reply.

With an expression of disgust, the blacksmith pulls the branding iron from his forge and throws it on the ground.

We step out with him into the street. By the large number of people who have gathered, the entire village must be present.

Maclellan is taking control; most folk must know who he is, because everyone listens with respect to what he says.