The Desperate Journey (2 page)

“What does the writing on the paper say, Davie? You are a better
reader than I am.”

James Murray had taught both his children to read and to write, and Davie had proved an apt scholar.

“Notice of termination of tenancy,” he read out slowly. “What does that mean?” Kirsty demanded.

“I am not sure. Father is the tenant of this croft. Perhaps it has something to do with that. Yes, it must be, for here is the Countess of Sutherland’s name and she owns our land, and here below is Father’s name.” Davie scanned the paper rapidly. “It is signed by Patrick Sellar.”

“That man!”

“There are so many big words, I think it is a lawyer’s paper,” Davie went on, reading aloud and stumbling among the legal terms, “– hereby give you notice to quit this house and the lands apper – appertaining, by the eleventh of May of the year 1812.”

“1812? Why, that’s this year, and it’s May next month,” Kirsty chattered. “Why, what’s the matter, Davie?”

Davie had come to an abrupt stop and turned quite pale. “Kirsty, it’s a notice to quit that the factor has served on us!”

“To quit? What does that mean?”

“To leave. To give up this house and to go away.”

“Go away? From Culmailie?” Kirsty sounded incredulous. “This is our home. You must be wrong, Davie.”

“I’m not wrong,” Davie said, reading the notice a second time. “Oh, Kirsty, it means we’ll all have to get out of here quite soon.”

Kirsty looked bewildered. “But where will we go?”

Davie shook his head. “Maybe my father will find another croft.”

Kirsty was troubled. “Davie, do you think this has happened because you threw the partan at the factor and I bit him?”

“It could be, Kirsty, it could be.” Davie looked worried too.

“Then maybe – maybe –” Kirsty faltered, “if we went to the factor and said we were sorry, he’d take this paper back again and
we could still bide at Culmailie?”

“But I’m
not
sorry,” Davie said obstinately. “We were in the right about the partan.”

“Och, Davie, you’re awful dour!” Kirsty bit her lip. “Will you not even say you are sorry to get us to stay?”

“Not even to get the factor to take the paper back and let us bide here will I crawl to him!”

Kirsty was on the verge of tears. “And will you let your pride come before us being turned out of our home? Then I will have to go to the factor and speak to him by myself.”

Davie hesitated and Kirsty was quick to see it. “I did not think you would let me face yon awful man alone,” she went on.

“No, I will not do that. I will go with you to the factor and ask him to take back the paper, but I will not say I was wrong over the matter of the crab.”

“Where shall we find the factor?”

“I am not sure. Maybe we should go to Dunrobin Castle where the Countess lives and ask for him there.”

“I – I’d be frightened to go there. Besides, it’s nigh on four miles away.”

“What are four miles?” Davie said with the contempt of the Highland lad who runs the hills.

“Eight miles altogether, there and back!” Kirsty reminded him.

“If you cannot walk eight miles, then you stay here.”

“No, no, I’ll go with you,” Kirsty said hastily.

“Then let’s be on our way before Father comes from the market and sees this.” Davie ripped the paper from the nail.

“Wait! First we must milk the cows or they’ll be bellowing fit to wake the dead,” Kirsty said practically.

When the cows were milked, Kirsty handed him a piece of bread and cheese. “Here, eat this, then go and wash your hands and face.”

Davie opened his eyes wide. “Wash myself? For what? It is not the Countess we are going to see, but just the factor.”

“All the same, we will go clean and not disgrace our mother,” Kirsty replied firmly, and though he grumbled, Davie went out to the well and fetched up a bucket of water to wash himself.

With scrubbed and shining faces they set off along the road to Dunrobin Castle. Under the tartan homespun shawl that was her Sabbath wear Kirsty carried something carefully.

“What have you got there?” Davie asked.

“Our shoes,” Kirsty said, revealing them. “Here! You can carry your own now.”

“Our shoes!” Davie stopped dead. “What in the name of goodness made you bring those?”

The children only wore shoes on the Sabbath when they went to church. Even then they walked the mile or so barefoot to save the leather, and only put on the shoes when they came within sight of the church.

“We will show the factor that the Murrays are not tinkers, that we have shoes like the best in the land,” Kirsty said with dignity. “There will be no call for him then to look with scorn at our dusty feet.”

Davie took his shoes from her without a word and tucked them under his arm. They plodded on silently for a mile or two, then Kirsty asked, “What will you say to the factor when you speak with him?”

“I shall ask him to take back this paper and to leave my father and mother to live in peace,” Davie told her.

“Will you speak so boldly as that to him?” Kirsty asked, admiring, but slightly alarmed. “Will you not go more softly about it, for, after all, he is the factor?”

“I shall speak plainly, but I will be respectful,” Davie decided, and Kirsty had to be content with that.

They passed through the gates of the estate and soon afterwards they came within sight of the great castle of Dunrobin; then with one accord they stopped and put on their shoes. Kirsty drew her shawl more tightly about her. The long avenue with the drifts of last year’s beech leaves stretched before them. All was silent except
for the light wind that rustled the trees overhead. Kirsty stopped suddenly. “I dare not go to that big door and ask for Mr Sellar. Oh, Davie, it’s frightened I am!”

Davie, too, was a little overawed by the castle, but he was not going to show it. “Oh, dinna be a feartie,” he said. “I’ve been here before with my father to bring a young pig for the Countess’s dinner.”

“Did she eat a whole pig?” Kirsty’s eyes opened wide.

“Och, it’s foolish you are! It was for a grand party she was having with a large company. I mind that then my father and I went round to the back of the castle where the servants live. That is what we will do now, and ask there for Mr Sellar.”

They went by a path through some kitchen gardens, then passed the stables, set well apart from the house. There a stable lad, grooming a horse, called to ask them where they were going.

“We are seeking Mr Patrick Sellar,” Davie said with dignity. “Will we be finding him at the castle?”

“Aye, he’s there speaking with her ladyship now. This is his horse that I’m grooming.”

The lad seemed friendly. Davie was encouraged to ask his advice. “How could I get word to Mr Sellar? I must speak with him this day.”

The stable lad looked at him curiously for a moment. “He is not likely to leave her ladyship to come and speak with you. You would do better to wait for him here. He may be some time, but you will be sure to see him, for he cannot go away without his horse.”

Kirsty looked troubled. “Oh dear! We must be home before the night falls.”

“James Murray’s bairns from Culmailie, are you?”

“Aye,” Davie nodded.

“I ken your father. Come into the stable, bairns. You can sit on the hay there and rest.”

“But what if Mr Sellar comes out? We must not miss him.”

“You cannot miss him. He will send for his horse to be brought
round to the front of the castle, and I will call you then.”

It was warm and comfortable in the stable and the children settled down to rest, Kirsty leaning wearily against Davie. Soon her eyes began to blink and before long she was fast asleep. Davie remained awake, staring through the open door towards the castle, waiting, waiting. The sunset tinted the topmost branches of the trees a rosy red, then the sky paled; colour drained from it and the greyness of evening spread about. Davie shifted uneasily. Already they would have been missed at the croft and even now his father might be searching for them. After coming so far, though, it would never do to go back without seeing the factor.

Kirsty stirred, rubbed her eyes and looked about her. Recollection came flooding back. “Oh, Davie, it’s getting dark and we’re still here! Surely the factor must have gone?”

“Not yet!” Just then there was a clatter of feet across the cobbled yard, and Calum Ross the stable lad came running.

“I’ve to saddle Mr Sellar’s horse now and lead him round to the foot of the steps below the main door.”

“I’ll help you with the saddling,” Davie offered.

That done, Calum led the horse round the side of the castle, and the children followed him closely.

Mr Sellar came out and began to descend the steps. Davie stepped forward between Mr Sellar and his horse. “Please, sir, may I have a word with you?” he asked respectfully.

Sellar peered at him in the gathering dusk. “You, is it? Murray’s lad? Ah, so your sister of the sharp teeth is with you too? Weel, has your father sent you snivelling to ask my pardon?”

“He has not!” Davie cried indignantly. “It is about this paper that we found nailed to our door that we have come.”

“Ah! I thought that would sting James Murray,” Sellar said with satisfaction. “A crafty piece of work to send his bairns to ask for mercy!”

“He has not sent us!” Davie shouted, his temper rising. “My
father does not know about this paper. We plucked it down before he saw it.”

“That’s true, sir,” Kirsty added her word. “We came ourselves to ask you to take it back, and – and – to leave us all in peace.” She had remembered Davie’s words and said them for him.

“You had better take that paper back to your father,” Sellar said coldly. “If you do not, you will find yourselves in trouble for interfering with the law.” He made a move towards his horse.

“Please, sir, listen to me.” Davie stood deliberately in his path. “My father has been a good tenant, always ready with his rent. It – it would break my mother’s heart to leave Culmailie –”

“Out of my way, scum! Get back to your pigsty!” Sellar thrust him so roughly aside that Davie stumbled and fell to his knees. Before he could pick himself up, Sellar had his foot in the stirrup and mounted his horse. Kirsty had to jump aside so that she was not under the horse’s hoofs as Sellar turned.

Davie flung an arm round her. “You are a wicked evil man, Mr Sellar!” he called after the factor.

“Steady, lad, it is a chancy thing to be calling the factor names,” Calum Ross said. “All the same, he might have taken the time to listen to you.”

“All that waiting and we have done no good!” Kirsty burst into tears. “Now it is late and our father will be angry and I am so tired.”

“We were better not to have come at all,” Davie said with regret. “Come, Kirsty lass, we’ll get back to Culmailie.”

He thrust the paper he held into his pocket and gave a hand to Kirsty.

“First we must take off our shoes,” Kirsty said, always the practical one. She slipped off her shoes and tucked them under her shawl. “Let us get clear of all these trees before the night falls.” She glanced timidly about her.

“The moon will be rising soon,” Davie said reassuringly.

They hurried through the castle lands till they reached the high
road again. They turned left and followed it till they trudged over the bridge that crossed the Golspie Burn and into the village of Golspie. A light shone from the minister’s manse and from the schoolmaster’s house but most of the windows were already dark, for it cost money to burn candles.

The children were half way through the village when they heard footsteps and saw coming towards them a shadowy figure carrying a lantern. Kirsty clutched Davie.

“Oh, is it a robber, Davie?”

“Silly, would a robber be carrying a lantern?” The figure broke into a run towards them.

“It’s Father!” Davie exclaimed. “It’s Father with the lantern.”

“Father! Father!” Kirsty cried, throwing herself upon him. “Oh, Father, it’s glad I am to see you!” She burst into tears of relief.

“Where have you children been?” James Murray demanded sternly.

“To Dunrobin Castle. We went to speak with the factor,” Davie told him.

“To speak to Mr Sellar? Why?”

“Because of this paper we found pinned to the door.” Davie handed the paper to his father, who scrutinised it by the light of the lantern. His face set in hard lines.

“We thought if we spoke to the factor and I said I was sorry for biting him, he might take the paper back,” Kirsty explained. “But he wouldn’t listen to us though we had waited such a long time, and – I’m so tired –” The tears began to flow again. James Murray folded the paper away in his pocket, then lifted Kirsty on to his shoulder.

“Come then, my wee lassie! We’ll talk no more about this till we get home. You take the lantern, Davie.”

When they reached Culmailie, their mother was at the door watching anxiously. “Is it you, James?” she called out.

“Aye, lass, I’ve got the bairns safe and sound.”

“Thank God for that!” she cried with all her heart.

Soon they were seated by the fire, each with a cup of warm milk and bread and cheese, and while they ate, they told their parents of all that had happened at Dunrobin.

“Is it true what Davie says, that we’ll have to leave Culmailie?” Kirsty asked her father.

“Aye, he read the paper right,” James Murray said grimly.

“Is it – is it because Davie stood up to him about the partan and – and I bit him?” Kirsty asked.

“No, my lassie, it would have come anyway, though that business may have hastened it. What will happen to us has already happened to many a crofter in Sutherland, and more of us yet will have to go.”

“But why must we be turned out of our house?” Davie demanded vehemently.

“To make way for sheep, my laddie. Her ladyship at Dunrobin can make more money by letting her land to sheep farmers.”

“But she is already rich. She dresses in silks and she eats meat three times a day, someone told me.”

“No matter! Sheep count for more than men in these days.”

Kate Murray had been listening quietly, her face pinched by unhappiness. “For generations the Murrays have lived at Culmailie,” she said. “It is out of the memory of man when Culmailie was not farmed by a Murray. Here you were born, James, and to Culmailie I came as a bride, and here your children were born. And now there will be no more Murrays at Culmailie.” She bowed her head and they were all silent for a few minutes, then she spoke again. “How long have we, James, before we must go?”