Authors: Jenny Telfer Chaplin
Chapter 4
It was much later that Sunday evening before Fergus finally made his way home to Govan and Maggie. As he entered the cottage it was to find Maggie, face like fury and arms akimbo awaiting him, and all set to do battle.
But before she could launch into the offensive, Fergus held up a shaking hand and with a weary shake of his head, pleaded, “Maggie! For the love o’ God, dinnae start! No the very minute Ah set ma foot inside the hoose. If ye must know – Ah’ve had one hell o a time!”
Light of battle in her eyes, she rounded on him.
“You’ve had one hell of a time! Well now, Fergus and just what do you think I’ve had? A celebration at the Govan Fair with three bairns in tow? Not to mention another on the way! And me nearly demented with worry about you.”
“Uch! Maggie! Leave it! Ah jist cannae tak any more. That hellish skirmish at Paisley Cross … it’s more than …”
At once all her senses alert, Maggie strained forward and with a look of horror on her face butted in with the words.
“Skirmish, did you say? What in the name of God has happened?”
While she awaited his reply with what patience she could muster, she saw that not only was his face ashen, his shoulders bowed, his best Sunday jacket in shreds, but he also seemed on the point of total collapse.
“Good God Almighty, Fergus! Look at you! Uch! Sit down, man, before you fall on the floor in a heap and waken up the bairns.”
As he sank into his chair, suddenly he looked like an old done man. This impression was heightened when, passing a still-trembling hand over his brow, he mumbled, “It was a nightmare, Maggie! A hellish nightmare!”
At once all wifely concern, she went over to him, knelt before him, and taking his hand in hers, she said softly:
“All right, Fergus! Suppose you tell me exactly what happened? Start right at the beginning, don’t spare me anything. I’m sure to hear it from somebody else anyway. Better from you, and you might as well get it off your chest.”
It seemed that, to everyone’s surprise, the mass meeting had gone smoothly and apart from some spirited heckling and coarse language, the event had gone without undue incident. When it broke up in the early evening, the Neilson contingent, with band playing, were the first to leave, with other protesters marching along happily in their wake. As the men marched away in step with the band, there was even something of a holiday atmosphere. People were relieved that a Scottish Peterloo had been averted.
However in anticipation of trouble ahead, a line of constables had been positioned along the High Street, with the human shield stretching as far as the Saracen’s Head Inn. The moment that the members of the band saw the waiting police, they at once sensed trouble and smartly side-tracked down Storie Street and thus safely away from any immediate danger.
Not so the Glasgow contingent, who still buoyed up with the success of the rally, and with black-edged banners waving in the evening breeze, continued with supreme confidence to march defiantly down the heavily-guarded High Street. Even so, all had gone well enough until they were nearing the Paisley Cross. Once there, Lord Provost Jamieson took it upon himself to confront the marchers and attempt to seize a Radical flag.
This rash action was enough to set aflame the violence which had been simmering all day within the ranks of the protesters.
As he reached this point in his story, Fergus raised his head and from the haunted look in his eyes, it was clear that he was reliving every moment of his ordeal.
“Uch! Maggie! It was terrible! Before we kent whit was happenin, there was sticks, stanes, chunks o masonry and even torn-up iron railings gettin chucked aroon.”
Maggie put a comforting arm around his shoulder.
“It’s a wonder to me, Fergus, that you weren’t injured.”
He nodded. Then as his face clouded he shuddered.
“Och aye’ Ah’m fine! Ah was one o’ the lucky ones. It’s Rab. He’s the one Ah’m worried sick aboot.”
“Rab? Why, what happened to your brother?”
Fergus’s face twisted and a fierce sob wracked his body.
Maggie had never seen before a man crying and she was at a loss to know how to comfort him.
“Rab got hit. In the face. Yon flyin bits o railins – like bloody spears they were!”
Maggie let out a sigh of relief. “Oh Fergus, don’t upset yourself. So Rab got hit in the face and his manly beauty will be somewhat marred –”
Fergus jerked away from Maggie’s attempted comfort. He half rose from the chair and for a moment it looked as if he would strike her. But instead he sank back then shouted, “Ye stupid bitch. Dae ye no understand whit Ah’m trying tae tell ye?”
“Fergus don’t you dare speak to me like that. I’ll not –”
Instead of answering her, Fergus’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Rab. Rab ma bree … Ah’ve always looked after him. And noo … thanks tae me he’s …”
“Fergus! Stop this! You’ve frightened me enough. Rab’s got a scratch on his face, perhaps scarred for life. But even so he’s alive –.”
“It wid be better for Rab and his family if he was dead!”
“For heaven’s sake, Fergus talk some sense. What could be worse than Rab being dead and buried?”
“Dammit aw tae Hell, woman. Are ye glaikit or what? The poor bugger is blinded! Lost the sight o both eyes. Blind! Blind! Can ye understand that? He’ll never see his wife or his bairns again. And something else that mibbe hasnae occurred tae ye. How in Hell will he support Sheena and his bairns noo? Whit earthly use is a blind miner tae Dixon’s or any other employer? Uch! And tae think it’s aw ma fault.”
“Look, Fergus, I admit I’m shocked by what you’ve told me. And being not totally glaikit, as you so kindly put it, yes, even I can see that finding gainful employment is going to be a major problem. I can appreciate all that. But what I’ll not accept is this business of its all being your fault. You’re talking rubbish! After all, you didn’t throw the spear, stick or whatever it was. So, how could it possibly be your fault? That’s utter drivel and you know it!”
Fergus shook his head sadly, then sinking back into his chair, he unburdened his soul.
“Maggie, if only Ah could tak comfort frae your words. But the fact remains, it was my fault. The truth o the matter is that Rab didnae even want tae go tae Paisley when Ah told him a schoolmaster called Alexander Taylor was going tae be the principal speaker and Ah probably wouldnae even be on the platform. Rab had fixed tae gae fishin’ doon at the Clyde at that spot were we used to fish as lads, jist doon frae Auntie Netta’s cottage. Sheena’s brother, Big Tam wis goin tae gae wi him.”
“So what happened?”
“Ah persuaded him tae join me at the Rally. Ye see, without soundin too big-heided, Rab has aye been that proud o me and Ah think he was hopin there would be a change o plan and Ah might be on the platform wi the other speakers. Truth to tell Ah may hae hinted that Ah would, jist tae encourage Rab. Big Tam even came along wi us. Oh God, Tam got hurt tae and Rab got blinded. How can Ah live wi that for the rest o ma life? Jist tell me that, Maggie.”
There was nothing Maggie could think to do or say to assuage his grief in any way.
After a lengthy silence Fergus burst out with, “Weel, there’s one thing for sure. If they buggers o bosses, high heid yins, the polis or the military think they heard the last o this Radical speaker then they’ve got another think coming. If it’s the last thing Ah dae on this earth Ah’ll get vengeance for ma poor Rab! Aye and for all thae other poor chiels whose lives hae been ruined this day. Wi every fibre o ma being Ah’ll fight for ma fellow Scots. Jist you see if Ah don’t.”
Chapter 5
The burden of guilt with regard to the cause of his brother’s blindness lay heavy on her husband's heart. No matter what Maggie said, did or suggested, or even when she tried to cajole him into a better frame of mind, Fergus just would not allow himself to be comforted. If anything, such exchanges between them inevitably led to angry words.
“Look, Maggie! For God's sake! will ye stop tryin' tae mak licht o' it. It's a tragedy. A hellish tragedy! And that's the top and bottom o it. Rab is noo blind. And it's aw ma blame! And forbye, Ah ken fine weel that it's ma fault.”
“Fergus! All right, so you persuaded him to go with you to Paisley that day. And yes! If you must, it was under false pretences! But you didn't throw that spear, now did you? And can't you even begin to understand that what occurred could have happened to any one of a thousand innocent bystanders in that crowd. So, from that point of view, it was not your fault!”
But Fergus would have none of it. By now in the depths of despair, he would only shake his head in sorrow. To give him his due, he had certainly tried to make amends, but each time he called at his brother's hovel near Dixon's coal-mine, Sheena had immediately slammed the door shut in his face.
On another occasion, despite already knowing it to be utterly hopeless given the additional problem of Sheena’s hatred of her ladylike sister-in-law, Maggie had gone at Fergus's bidding to plead his case. She too had met with a similar fate. However, in her case, there was the added refinement of screamed abuse, obscenities and the contents of a chamber pot emptied over her. The memory of that particular visit reverberated in Maggie’s mind and in the nightmares which followed for months afterwards.
“What is to be done, Fergus? They'll have nothing more to do with us? And yet I do realise that you want to help them in whatever way you can.”
At these words, her husband stood up and with a glint of determination in his eyes, he said, “Nothin else for it, Maggie! Ah'll jist hae tae work twice as hard at ma loom. From now on, somehow Ah'll hae tae earn enough siller for tae keep the twa families fed wi' parritch, stovies and Scotch broth.”
Knowing full well what a struggle she herself always had to make ends meet, privately Maggie thought this promise to keep two families fed, clothed, and watered nothing other than the ravings of a desperate and near-demented man. Even so, yet again she tried to dissuade him from his avowed intention.
“Fergus! Fergus, my own dear love! Listen! ’Tis but a pipe-dream this notion of yours. And suppose you did somehow manage to earn enough, how on earth are you going to persuade Sheena to accept money from us? She won't even give us the time of day now, far less be in reverence to us for unasked for charity. Think along those lines, my dear.”
Even though it turned out as Maggie had predicted, still Fergus would not be swayed from working at his loom like a man possessed. He had taken to muttering to himself in time to its clacking.
“Sheena will come to thank me yet. Aye, There’s a time comin' when Sheena will be glad to accept money frae ma hands.”
And so it continued throughout the entire winter of 1819 and on into the dark days of the following January. Fergus and his loom were as one. Each time the extra bawbees were refused by the proud but now destitute Sheena, Fergus would lay aside the precious coins in a stone jar by his fireside with the words, “Aye, the time will come. Ah’ll no stand by and see Rab and his wife and bairns shoved intae the Poorhoose. As lang as there’s breath in ma body that will never happen.”
But the Poorhouse was looming ever nearer with every day that passed especially now that Rab and his family had been evicted from the tied miner’s but-and-ben and were now living in a rat-ridden outhouse in Buchan’s boat yard.
On a dark dreich day in late February, 1820, Maggie opened the door to their cottage in answer to a frantic hammering. It was Rab’s eldest son, Rory.
On the last day of February they laid poor Rab to rest in the unhallowed area kept for those who, unable to face up to their own particular hell on earth, had committed the ultimate sin of suicide. Had it not been for Fergus coming forward with some of the contents of his stone jar it would have been that last indignity for any proud Scot – a pauper’s grave.
As the little knot of mourners left the graveside Fergus, shoulders bowed, shuffled along like an old man. He felt a hand on his arm and he looked up into the face of his old friend Archie Anderson.
“A sad day indeed, Fergus. Whit a tragic waste. But the ways o the Lord are abune oor ken. We maun dae oor poor best. God kens ye aye did yer best for yer brother.”
“Thank ye kindly, Erchie, for them words o comfort. Aye, man! And it’s been a terrible time... first Rab’s blindness, the loss o’ his job, the eviction frae his tied hoose, and then... tae see him hangin yonder frae a beam in Buchan’s yard! Uch! It’s mair than the human frame can stand.”
By the time that the men who comprised the small group of graveside mourners had arrived back at Fergus’s cottage in Harmony Row, Maggie with the help of Sheena and the other women had a funeral-tea ready and waiting. As the meal progressed and the jug of whisky circulated, tensions began to ease somewhat to the point where questions were being asked about the immediate future of Sheena and her bairns.
It was left to young Rory, now the man of the family, to reply, “Dinnae fash yersels. Ah’ll work hard tae keep ma Mammy and the bairns.”
Even as the words were spoken and seemed to hang in the air between the assembled group, Maggie knew that much as he would like to do so, young Rory would be hard pressed to support his family from his meagre earnings at Buchan’s Yard.
Finally, when the discussion seemed to be getting nowhere, Fergus stood up and banged the table with a clenched fist for silence.
“Seems tae me that the best thing for Sheena and her poor fatherless bairns would be for them to get passage on an emigrant ship tae America or some-such place. Ah’ll certainly give what’s left of ma extra loom money towards the cost of boat tickets.”
A voice from the group asked, “Whit aboot ye, Fergus? Dinnae forget ye’re a known Radical. Should ye no be thinking o getting Maggie and yer ain bairns oot o here tae a country o safety?”
Fergus gave no answer and soon after, the whisky being exhausted, the mourners left.