Page 6 of A Fire in Their Hearts

‘Preventing an innocent Scotsman from being tortured was the right thing to do. How can honest men be considered so low that we’re treated worse than beasts in the field? How can men like this –’ He points at the corporal – ‘treat us so?’

There is much nodding and a growing buzz of agreement amongst the villagers.

‘What’s happened will not go unpunished. More soldiers will come and anyone found here will be in danger. You can scatter to other places, taking your possessions. There should be sufficient time to get away safely .?.?. Or we can raise such a noise that the king has to hear us!’

So many shouts and exclamations erupt from the crowd that it’s difficult to gauge the overall mood, which seems a boiling cauldron of anger, fear and uncertainty. Maclellan lets them have a few moments before holding up a hand for silence.

‘We can’t win by ourselves but we know that people throughout the area, throughout Scotland, believe it’s time for us to have the religious freedom that is our right. There are a dozen soldiers staying at Balmaclellan and extorting fines from the local population. I say we start by capturing them.’

‘We don’t have enough fighting men or weapons,’ says the blacksmith.

‘Do you speak for the village, hammerman?’ asks Maclellan.

‘Sometimes .?.?. yes.’

‘Good. Send out messengers. Put men on horseback to take the news farther afield. We gather at Dalry and in the morning we capture some more of the king’s soldiers.’

*?*?*

Around seventy of us walk the few miles south-east to the village of Balmaclellan.

More men had arrived at Dalry before we left, but John Maclellan didn’t want to take them all for so few soldiers.

We’re hoping there’s enough of us to make them surrender without a fight.

Hamish carries one of the blacksmith’s hammers while I’ve picked up the branding iron.

We’ve become friendly with some men from Ayr – Cornelius, Alexander and George.

They’re much older yet make no reference to our age or inexperience, and for that we’re grateful.

‘I think we’ve set a boulder rolling down the hill and it’s already grown too big to stop,’ says George, who’s as short and stout as his friend Cornelius is tall and thin.

‘Let’s hope we don’t get crushed by it,’ adds Cornelius.

‘John Maclellan seems a good leader,’ says Hamish, who’s keen to be involved in the conversation, keen to be viewed as an equal.

‘Seems so,’ replies George, ‘although we don’t know him. We were on our way to Dumfries looking for work when we heard the call. What about you two?’

‘We arrived in Dalry as the trouble broke out,’ says Hamish.

‘Seeking work?’ asks Cornelius.

Hamish looks to me to reply.

‘Just seeking,’ I say.

‘We’re all doing that, lad,’ says George quietly.

When we get near to our destination, Maclellan orders a halt and then speaks to the three men he was with in the alehouse. We’re soon split into groups. Maclellan comes over as if specifically seeking us out.

‘Leave your weapons, lads. You can pick them up on the way back.’

‘Why don’t we keep them?’ asks Hamish.

‘Because you’re fresh-faced and don’t look threatening, not like these ugly bastards.’

This gets the Ayr men laughing loudly, and they appear to take no offence at the comment.

‘Aren’t we going to fight them?’ asks Hamish.

‘I don’t want to fight them, I want to capture them, and the way of doing that without anyone getting hurt is to put them off their guard. So you two stay close to me.’

And so we follow in a group of fewer than twenty while the others head in different directions. The soldiers have taken over the largest house in the area and we stop a short distance away.

‘They’ve not even set a watch,’ says a man behind us.

‘That’s because they’re confident,’ replies Maclellan. ‘Who have they to fear around here?’ He raises his voice. ‘The king’s soldiers! We wish to speak to the king’s soldiers!’

It’s several minutes before figures stumble out of the front door, obviously having just grabbed muskets. Some men aren’t even fully dressed and nearly all of them are blowing on the lit cords that are needed to ignite the black powder in their weapons.

‘We’re sorry indeed to interrupt you while breaking your fast, but we need to talk.’

Maclellan speaks as if we’re all friends and his expression doesn’t change, even when he’s facing the muzzles of twelve muskets.

‘What do you want here?’ shouts the corporal. ‘We’re on the king’s business and if you don’t disperse immediately, I’ll order my men to fire.’

I didn’t understand Maclellan’s strategy but realise now that he’s got the soldiers exactly where he wants them. If they had seen a mass of seventy armed strangers, they would have barricaded themselves inside and the task of capturing them would have been much more dangerous.

‘We don’t wish to fight and there’s no reason for anyone to get hurt,’ says Maclellan, raising his arms as if to surrender. In reality, it’s a signal. Scores of figures creep quietly around both sides of the building and form up behind the soldiers.

‘All we want is for the king to listen to our demands. We’ve always confirmed our loyalty to the monarch, but we have a right to speak and be heard.’

The corporal and his men look around nervously, realising they’re trapped and hopelessly outnumbered.

Some of our men carry muskets, and these are raised almost casually.

I can see that the plan is to do everything slowly and without any sudden indication of a threat that might result in unnecessary violence.

‘Lay down your weapons. You have my word that no one will be hurt.’

‘Hah! The word of a traitor,’ sneers the corporal.

One of the soldiers taken at Dalry is pushed forward. I hadn’t even realised he was amongst us.

‘Speak,’ commands Maclellan.

‘We were captured yesterday and have been treated well,’ says the man miserably. ‘I don’t believe they mean to harm us.’

Several soldiers lower their muskets and a couple lay them gently on the ground.

‘Retrieve your weapons!’

The corporal seems set on a pointless confrontation and as he aims at Maclellan, there is something about his stance and expression that makes my heart miss a beat.

He intends to fire. The next moment there’s the crack of a musket.

People look around in surprise before the corporal sinks slowly to the ground.

‘Damn,’ says Maclellan, taking another step forward. ‘There was no need for anyone to be hurt. Lay down your weapons. Bind them. Check him and if he’s dead, see that he’s buried appropriately nearby.’

He shouts these orders without even waiting for everyone to obey, his obvious status meaning that men simply obey his commands.

‘This is bad,’ says Hamish quietly to me. ‘I think that one tiny ball of lead is about to result in a great deal of violence.’

I lay a hand on his shoulder protectively, but, of course, he’s right. A soldier in the king’s army has just been killed and the revenge upon us all will be terrible.

*?*?*

Within an hour of the events at Balmaclellan, most of us head east, while the captured soldiers are escorted to Dalry, where they’ll be held with the others.

We leave behind a freshly dug grave. As we move through the countryside, word spreads that Covenanters are to gather about six miles north-west of Dumfries at the kirk in Irongray.

The plan is to capture Sir James Turner, an important figure in the Royalist army who’s been responsible for much of the harsh treatment handed out to nonconformist Presbyterians.

Many in the group believe the entire Scottish nation is about to rise up and our actions will ignite the touchpaper that starts the rebellion, while plenty of others think we’re on our own.

We’re filled with so many contrasting emotions and expectations no one actually knows where our apparently insane actions will end.

‘What are you thinking?’ I ask Hamish.

We’re walking through a pasture. The startled farmer watches from a safe distance, probably unsure whether to run away or to welcome so many Scotsmen trudging through his land.

‘I think if we had met the king himself and poked a willow up his arse, we probably couldn’t cause more trouble for ourselves than what we’re about to do.’

The comment is so unlike what I’m used to hearing from the usually reserved Hamish that I burst out laughing, which sets him off as well. George asks the cause of our amusement and when I explain several of the men join in the fun, with voices shouting out around us.

‘We need to find a willow.’

‘We need to find the king’s arse.’

‘I expect he knows where it is.’

‘Willows! Willows!’

We’re weary but in good spirits when we arrive at Irongray kirk, which is currently without a minister.

Fortunately, there have been opportunities to obtain food along the way and plenty of streams to drink from.

Scores of men join us during the evening and in the gloom it’s impossible to know how many we now number.

Hamish and I sit around a fire with some of the men from Ayr, discussing the various officers in charge of us.

‘They do come in all shapes and sizes,’ says Alexander, who is of such average build that he is a complete contrast to his friends George and Cornelius. ‘Maybe you two could apply.’

We all laugh, including those at the butt of his joke.

‘Well, I hope whoever leads us tomorrow on our assault on Dumfries knows what they’re doing,’ says George.

‘Assault!’ says Hamish, sounding alarmed. ‘I thought we were only going to capture one man?’

‘One man who happens to be in charge of an awful lot of soldiers,’ says Alexander.

‘The rumour is that most of them are spread around the countryside,’ says Cornelius.

George winks at Hamish. ‘You might yet get to use that hammer, lad.’

‘Aye, just don’t forget,’ says Alexander, ‘hit them with the fat end!’

People soon settle down for the night as best they can in the kirk or nearby.

Hamish and I are lucky enough to find floor space under a pew.

However, despite my tiredness, sleep evades me for a long while and I sense that Hamish is also awake.

I can’t stop worrying that, in a few hours’ time, we’re going to poke that willow.

*?*?*

The only sounds from Dumfries at daybreak are the occasional barking of dogs and the call of a lone cockerel.

‘There doesn’t even seem to be a watch,’ says Alexander, expressing everyone’s surprise.

Most of the men on foot remain behind, but Hamish and I are amongst a small group ordered to accompany those on horses and we approach the town from the Galloway side, walking over the ancient bridge without any warnings being raised.

‘This is unbelievable,’ exclaims Alexander. ‘We’re not being challenged at all.’

Most of those on horses set off towards the garrison as quietly as they can, although the clipping of hooves seems to us to echo along the street like cannon shot.

‘People will hear them,’ says Hamish warily. ‘There’ll be trouble.’

‘Could you hit someone with that if it came to a fight?’ I ask.

He looks at the hammer as if it might inspire an answer. ‘I don’t know. Am I doing God’s work by hitting a man on the head?’

Hamish is so physically like a male version of Violet that he reminds me of her every time I look at him. I think that’s why I try to watch out for him so much.

‘If someone’s coming at you with a weapon, then hit him – don’t hesitate.’

We end up in front of a large house along with a handful of horsemen led by a man called Neilson of Corsack. We’ve obviously been heard by the occupant, for a few moments later an upstairs window opens and a rather dishevelled figure, still in his nightdress, peers down upon us in a state of alarm.

‘Quarter! I ask for quarter.’

‘This snivelling turd is the man behind so much suffering?’ says George.

‘Come down without resistance,’ Neilson orders, ‘and on my word as a gentleman you shall have quarter.’

And as easy as that, we capture the head of the local army, who appears at the front door just as a messenger arrives to announce that the small garrison of soldiers has been disarmed and bound without anyone being injured.

I don’t know whose idea it is, but Turner is put on a mule and paraded through the streets, accompanied by jeering residents along the way.

However, he isn’t harmed and when we get to the market cross we’re soon joined by most of the other Covenanters on horseback, a few of them absent because they’re guarding the soldiers.

‘I bet you lads won’t forget this morning!’ says George to Hamish and me.

‘Yes, but what happens now?’ asks Hamish.

As if in reply, several local men appear from the nearby tavern carrying trays with cups of ale which are handed out, including one to Turner, who’s still in his nightdress on the mule.

Then, to make this utterly unimaginable morning even more unreal, we demonstrate our loyalty to King Charles as Scotland’s monarch by raising our cups and enthusiastically toasting his health.