God's Highlander (3 page)

‘Come, before it's too dark to see.' Evangeline Garrett put a hand on Wyatt's arm.

‘But … your mother…?'

‘She'll be all right. As right as she's ever going to be, stuck up here in the Highlands. She was brought up in a city, surrounded by people. She can't cope with what she calls the “emptiness” of Scotland. It unnerves her.'

‘Hardly the qualities one expects to find in the wife of a Highland factor, surely?'

‘That's what Father's always telling her.' Evangeline shrugged. ‘You and he are right, I suppose, but I understand how she feels. I get like it myself sometimes. It's almost as though we've lost the rest of the world – the
real
world, that is. I would never be surprised if one day we set off to return to Edinburgh, only to learn it had gone and the whole world was as empty as here.'

Wyatt smiled at the thought. ‘Edinburgh was very much in evidence a week ago. But how can you pine for what man has made when God offers you such beauty as this?'

They were in the garden now, and Wyatt made an expansive gesture. It included Loch Eil, the dusk-shadowed woods and mountains that surrounded it, and the high snow-wrapped bulk of Ben Nevis to the south-west. ‘You'll never see anything more beautiful.'

‘Perhaps that's the trouble.' Evangeline's gaze followed the sweep of his arm. ‘It's all
too
beautiful. Too perfect to be real. I find it unnerving. '

Her words took Wyatt by surprise. He had been born and bred amidst such scenery and had never questioned its perfection. Yet he recalled the reaction of soldiers belonging to non-Highland regiments
when they first marched through the Drakensberg Mountains in Natal. Until they had been there for a day or two they were completely overawed by their surroundings, their own insignificance magnified by the lofty grandeur of nature. It seemed the Highlands affected strangers in the same manner.

Then Wyatt was being shown the results of Evangeline's ‘gardening'. It appeared to be no more than indistinct clumps of frost-attacked foliage collapsed against the chill damp earth, but he uttered insincere sounds of appreciation. Fortunately, it was already too dark for Evangeline to expect him to differentiate between the various species of woebegone plants.

Wyatt was saved from further hypocrisy by John Garrett, who came to the door and informed them in stentorian tones that a meal was sitting on the table awaiting their presence.

Dinner was a somewhat subdued affair during which Wyatt was required to repeat the story of his adult life for the benefit of the factor. Evangeline prompted him to fill in many more details, while Charlotte Garrett maintained an unnatural silence, creating a strained atmosphere around the table.

John Garrett drank heavily throughout the meal, becoming increasingly belligerent. He began to describe in detail how he would put an end to the ‘idle uselessness of the Highland peasantry', by raising their rents to a point where they would be forced to abandon their tiny homesteads.

‘Lord Kilmalie should leave me to do whatever's necessary,' declared the factor loudly, his face red and perspiring. ‘I'm not taken in by their cringing and whining. I'd have 'em out in no time. Had it been done years ago, the estate would be showing a handsome profit now.'

‘Not too many years ago the men you're talking about were holding the line at Waterloo, in regiments raised by their landlords,' declared Wyatt firmly. ‘They didn't march off to war in order to make a profit.'

John Garrett snorted scornfully. ‘You sound just like
them
, Preacher. All such rubbish is in the past. Anything owed to them has been long paid. No man's entitled to be a millstone around the neck of a landowner just because his grandfather or great-grandfather fought in a war. I doubt if there's a man left about here who's been within a mile of a battlefield.'

Wyatt felt very strongly about landowners and factors who cleared
people from the land for no other reason than to increase profits, but he knew it was useless reminding the factor that Waterloo had been fought only twenty-seven years before. A man did not have to be ancient to have fought in the army of the Duke of Wellington – and local regiments had been in the thick of that battle. John Garrett would not have accepted such enlightenment, even had he been sober.

Instead, Wyatt downed his drink, and as the fiery liquid burned a path down his throat he said: ‘It's time I was leaving. I want to be up and about early tomorrow.'

As Evangeline pouted her disappointment, John Garrett eyed Wyatt suspiciously. ‘Don't start getting any half-baked ideas about the rights of the men of Eskaig, Minister. You tend to their
spiritual
needs; that's what Lord Kilmalie pays you for. He pays
me
to see to everything else. Remember it and we'll get along famously. It's
them
and us up here – and you'll find you need me far more than I need you.'

Suddenly, John Garrett relaxed. ‘But I don't need to be telling you this, do I? After all, we're both Lord Kilmalie's men.'

D
URING THE NEXT few days Wyatt thought often of the factor's parting words. John Garrett was the second man to tell him he was ‘a landlord's man'. It disconcerted Wyatt greatly. He had come to Eskaig as a preacher. A man of God with a duty to serve the people.

Certainly, John Garrett had been right about one thing. Wyatt
could
be inducted against the will of the people and in defiance of church law. A number of recent rulings in the civil courts had confirmed this. The man who had caused a church to be built – in practice the landlord – was deemed to possess the sole authority to appoint a minister to that living. Yet only a fool would deliberately go against the wishes of a Highland community if it was his intention to live and work in their midst.

Wyatt wanted to follow the age-old traditions of the Church of Scotland and have his induction endorsed by the people of Eskaig. His parishioners.

Between settling in at the manse and preparing for his first Sunday in Eskaig, Wyatt spent much time walking about the village and also visiting the small communities scattered around the edges of the seven-mile-long loch. Everywhere he was given a reception that was polite, but as icily cold as the waters of the burns tumbling from the snow-capped mountains. His questions were invariably answered with a terse ‘Don't know'. He did not learn the names of the church elders until, in a cupboard inside the church, he discovered a book containing details of church meetings. Even then, not a single villager would raise an arm to point the way to the homes of the men named in the book.

Worse was to come. Believing that his Sunday sermon could be a way of bringing the Highland congregation and their preacher closer
together, Wyatt spent many night hours at his desk, working by candlelight. A powerful yet conciliatory sermon was completed in the early hours of the Sabbath – Wyatt's first as minister of Eskaig.

Sitting back in his chair, Wyatt stretched and rubbed tired eyes. No more could be done now. His future among the Highlanders would be decided in the small Eskaig church later that morning, when sunlight had chased away the shadows lurking inside the manse and warmed the recesses of his tired and over-imaginative mind.

The day began with a threat of rain, but the mountains held back the cloud. By ten o'clock, when Wyatt closed the gate of the manse garden behind him and set off for the church, the risk of rain had receded and the sun was breaking through. It would be a good day for those members of the congregation who needed to walk miles to church across the springy Highland turf.

At half-past ten, thirty minutes before the service was due to begin, Wyatt stationed himself at the doorway of the church. He waited with some trepidation to welcome worshippers to his first service.

By eleven-thirty Wyatt conceded that no one intended to come to morning service in the parish church. It was a bitter disappointment. He had returned to the Highlands with such high hopes, determined to dedicate his life to the community which had buried his father. It seemed they were not prepared to give him such an opportunity.

Wyatt had returned inside the church when an old woman, dressed in clothes that no stretch of the imagination could consider to be ‘Sunday best', entered quietly through the doorway. She was hardly a congregation, but by now Wyatt was ready to clutch at the most unlikely of straws.

‘Have you come for the service? Here … let me guide you to a pew, right here at the front. I promise you a sermon as stirring as though I were delivering it to a thousand of the Lord's most devout followers…. '

The old woman shook his hand free of her arm. She looked about the church with obvious disapproval, and her pursed lips put Wyatt in mind of the mouth of a drawstring pouch.

‘No use you talking to me. Not unless you can work more miracles than the good Lord himself – and it doesn't seem you're strong on miracles, Minister.' She put a finger to one of her ears. ‘I'm deaf. Haven't heard a word these ten years.'

‘What … are … you … doing … here?'

Wyatt spoke in the exaggerated manner adopted by those unused to speaking to the deaf, carefully enunciating each word.

‘Eh? Can't hear you. I'm deaf, I tell you. Factor pays me sixpence a week to clean out the church after Sunday services. I do the same for the manse once a week for another sixpence. I'll shop for you, too, given money in advance. I like to come in here and sit at the back on a Sunday, so I can make a start as soon as the service is over.' The old woman looked pointedly about her. ‘This will be an easy day's money.' Looking up into Wyatt's face, she added: ‘Neither of us is going to die of hard work here today, Minister.'

She was still cackling merrily when she passed Evangeline Garrett on the path that went through the small churchyard.

Entering the church, Evangeline acknowledged Wyatt with a nod before looking about her. She frowned. ‘I thought you'd be taking a service this morning. Or is it over already? I rode here hoping to be in time to hear your first sermon.'

‘You and that old woman are the only ones to have set foot inside the kirk this morning – and she only came here to clean up.' Wyatt hoped the disappointment he felt could not be detected in his voice.

‘Oh, Wyatt, I'm so sorry! I really am. Everyone is being absolutely horrid to you.' Evangeline laid her hand on his arm in a spontaneous gesture of sympathy. ‘Please don't be too upset. I'll tell my father. He'll make them come to church—'

‘No!' The word sounded unduly loud and harsh inside the empty church. ‘I'm sorry…. Look, I know you mean well, but this is a problem I must solve in my own way if I'm to succeed as minister here.'

‘Yes, of course….' Evangeline removed her hand from his arm and brushed an imaginary speck of dust from his sleeve. ‘You'll be holding an afternoon service?'

Because many Highland parishioners needed to travel long distances in order to reach their church and return home before dark, an afternoon service took the place of the evening one.

‘It hardly seems worthwhile….'

‘Nonsense! We're not early risers on a Sunday,' she explained apologetically, ‘but the whole family always attends church in the afternoon. So do our servants. You'll have a better congregation then, I promise you.'

‘In that case the service will go ahead as usual.'

Evangeline gave Wyatt a warm smile. ‘Good! Can I persuade you to come home and have lunch with us?'

Wyatt shook his head. ‘Not on a Sunday. This is the day I devote to my church.' He did not add that if he were ever to gain the confidence of the people of Eskaig he needed to steer a course that kept the factor at arm's length as far as possible.

‘Then, I'll see you this afternoon – but, I warn you, I'll expect you to return to the house for dinner afterwards.'

 

There were twenty-three men, women and children in church for the afternoon service. It was far fewer than Wyatt would have wished, and he was aware all were drawn from the families of those who worked in the Garrett household. But it was enough to make the service worthwhile, and Wyatt ensured the small congregation was given a service to remember. He preached a sermon that promised ‘fire and brimstone' for those who did not follow the path of the Lord. The wide eyes of the children told him it had been a powerful sermon, at least.

Evangeline was almost as awed as the children when she met him outside the church afterwards. ‘That was a
wonderful
sermon, Wyatt,' she enthused. ‘The people of Eskaig don't know what they've missed. They
will
come to your church, you'll see. When they do they'll realise they have a better preacher than Minister Gunn ever was.'

Charlotte Garrett echoed her daughter's sentiments, adding: ‘It
was
a fine sermon. I'll look forward to Sundays with much more pleasure now you are here.'

Out here in the daylight Charlotte Garrett was paler and more gaunt than she had appeared in her own home. There was a brittle intensity about her that Wyatt found disconcerting. He was a Doctor of Divinity but, for Charlotte Garrett's sake, he wished he was also a Doctor of Medicine.

John Garrett was less impressed with Wyatt's preaching skills. Shrugging a heavy cape about his shoulders, he looked up at the dark grey clouds lowering over the mountain-tops. ‘There's a deal of rain up there, Minister. Don't be too long in making ready. You'll find our pony and trap by the gate.'

It was a tight squeeze in the light two-wheeled carriage, and the lochside track had not yet been repaired after suffering the ravages of
winter, yet Evangeline did not mind the discomfort. Seated next to Wyatt, she occasionally clutched his arm in order to maintain her balance. When this happened she would smile up at him happily while her father cursed the state of the road.

They had travelled for about a mile when Wyatt suddenly cried: ‘Stop!' It was such an urgent cry that the factor hauled on the reins, bringing the pony to a restless halt.

‘What is it?' the factor demanded.

‘There's a young lad over there in the bushes. I want to have a word with him.'

Wyatt had glimpsed Ewan Munro to one side of the track. The boy had darted for the cover of a clump of straggly gorse just before the pony and trap passed by, but before he disappeared from view Wyatt had spotted a bloody rag wrapped about Ewan Munro's bare leg.

John Garrett erupted in anger. ‘I'm damned if I'm going to risk a soaking while you talk to some urchin. Get back in the trap.'

There was some justification for the factor's concern about the weather. Heavy black cloud was beginning to roll down the mountainside towards the loch, and specks of rain were carried on the wind. But Wyatt was already out of the trap.

‘I'll not be a few minutes….' Wyatt had seen the boy scrambling towards an area of broken rocks, higher up the slope.

John Garrett flicked the reins over the pony's back angrily. ‘Then, you'll need to
walk
to the house.'

A moment later pony and trap were clattering off along the track. As the two women occupants looked back at Wyatt he saw distress on the pale face of Charlotte Garrett, while Evangeline's expression was one of increasing anger.

Wyatt did not pause to wonder whether the anger was directed at himself or at her father. He began scrambling up the mountainside to where he had last seen the ragged boy. Ewan Munro was in need of help, and this was more important to him than missing a meal with the Garrett family.

When Wyatt reached the spot where he had last seen the boy there was no one in sight, but a few hundred yards away was the narrow glen where the boy had eluded Wyatt on their previous meeting.

Wyatt followed the glen, heading towards the increasingly loud sound of a fast-running mountain stream somewhere ahead. Soon he
was enveloped in the grey mist of the clouds, and up here there was both rain and a hint of snow in the wind. Wyatt had almost decided to abandon his search when he heard a sound from the mist somewhere below him. It was a boy crying.

Painfully forcing his way through the undergrowth, Wyatt headed towards the sound, which by now had become a low intermittent snuffling. Quite suddenly Wyatt cleared the undergrowth – and almost tripped over the boy.

Ewan Munro was seated by the side of a rapid-flowing stream, splashing handfuls of water on his leg. Startled by Wyatt's sudden appearance, he tried to scramble away along the stone-strewn stream-bank, but Wyatt was quicker. He caught the boy before he was more than an arm's length away.

Ewan Munro fought desperately for his freedom for some moments. Suddenly he cried out in pain, and his struggles ceased as his face contorted in agony.

Releasing his grip, Wyatt had no need to ask the young boy what was wrong. As Ewan Munro straightened his injured leg Wyatt saw it was far worse than he had realised. Beneath the knee the leg was bloody, swollen and discoloured. It was also dirty as a result of their recent struggle.

‘How did you do this?' Escape and pursuit were forgotten as Wyatt kneeled beside the boy and examined the injured limb.

Receiving no reply, Wyatt repeated the question in Gaelic, although he was aware the boy understood English.

‘I was shot … by the factor's men.' Ewan Munro's reply was in Gaelic.

‘When?' Wyatt's question was tinged with disbelief. He was aware that the factor held the Highlanders in low esteem, but he could not believe any man would order the shooting of a boy.

‘The day you last chased me. When I had the salmon.'

Wyatt's lips tightened to a grim thin line as he completed his examination of the wounded leg. The boy had been wounded by scattershot from a sportsman's gun at close range, and the leg had not been properly treated. It was hardly surprising the wound was showing signs of infection.

‘The first thing we need to do is get this cleaned up so we can see how bad it is.'

Making no attempt to escape now, Ewan Munro followed Wyatt back to the stream. He sat on the stony bank, trying hard not to cry out when Wyatt began cleaning the wound.

As he worked, Wyatt questioned the boy. He learned Ewan Munro lived with his family ‘a wee walk away'. The vague information was accompanied by a wave of the arm indicating only that it was farther along the glen.

When the blood and dirt on Ewan's leg had been washed away the puffiness of infected tissue became more apparent. Wyatt suspected a number of pieces of lead shot were still lodged beneath the skin. If the leg was to get better, all the shot would have to come out.

‘You should see a doctor. There's some work needs to be done on this leg.'

Ewan Munro looked at Wyatt with all the scorn a ten-year-old could muster. ‘The doctor's all the way to Corpach. Like yourself, he's the landlord's man. It's the factor's shot I'm carrying. If I go to him, he'll have me in the lock-up without so much as looking at my leg. No doubt you'll try to do the same – but you've got to get me to Corpach first.'