Tales from the Tent (14 page)

W
e were on the road again and on the way we stopped for a while amidst the lowland gypsies. Here is my all-time favourite story from the Border
counties.

In the time of upheaval at the end of the Seventeenth Century, while Scotland blew war trumpets between the north and the south, a small band of gypsies lived in perfect peace and harmony to the
south of the bonny town of Hawick. In this group lived a woman by the name of Jeannie Gordon. Quite a tall lass, not awfy bonny but well respected by all who knew her. She had once been the proud
wife of big Johnny Young, but had seen him killed during a fight with a fellow basket-seller at Selkirk.

Our tale opens one sleepy late afternoon in the month of July. The lassies washing clothes in the river were startled by a deep-throated gurgling sound from the water’s depth. Unbeknown to
any of them an underground stream at the head of the town had taken all it could after weeks of torrential rain, and like a great geyser suddenly spurted up through the ground with a velocity never
before seen by even the oldest inhabitants.

Thirty, forty, fifty, aye, maybe a hundred feet it spouted into the air to fall back upon the poor unsuspecting folks of Hawick. They didn’t stand a chance as it cascaded in and through
their houses, taking every movable object that lay in its surging path. Baths, brushes, basins, tables, chairs, dishes, wee dogs, nothing escaped. Those who were able to clung like grim death to
whatever offered a hold, it was too bad for those who didn’t. It was a nightmare for those Hawick folks right enough, but not so the gypsies. Oh no, they looked upon the river’s bounty
with rubbed hands and gleeful eyes. Never had they seen so many free goods. Every able-bodied gypsy was waist deep into the water, pulling out whatever they could grab hold of. Jeannie was no
exception, until she saw something bobbing furiously in the raging torrent. Of all things, it was a baby’s cradle. ‘The babby,’ she screamed, ‘get the wee babby,
look—it’s in the crib.’ Now any travelling body will tell you, no matter how rich the plunder, if a baby is in trouble then drop you drop it all and rescue the innocent. The men
and women linked arms to span the rushing water and reach the little mariner. Just in time Jeannie, standing the last in the line, stretched her body as far as humanly possible and from the brink
saved the tiny bundle, which was completely unaware of its almost certain doom. The infant, a boy of several months, snuggled into Jeannie’s bosom and was now stirring for milk.

‘Who’s to go into Hawick with me and return this babby to its natural mother?’ she asked the band. An old man approached her shaking his head.

‘Nobody, Jeannie,’ he said, ‘because if any one of us goes near the toon then we’ll be flung in jail for stealing. You know that, woman.’

‘Aye, but for the love of God, will this wee mite no dee if it bides away frae its mither?’

‘Leave it here, then. If a mither is fretting then she’ll come a-looking. Now come on, Jeannie, we’ll have tae uproot and go from here. It’s the safety of us all that
matters.’

Jeannie knew full well that if she left such a vulnerable bundle at the mercy of the woods then a fox would feast before long. No, there was only one thing to do, take him with them. That she
did, weaning him on goat’s milk and giving him her family name of Gordon.

Now, this might be the best time to tell you that Jeannie had a daughter, who when she took on Gordon, was only a yearling. Jeannie never lied to him about her not being his true mother. However
she did lie and say he was abandoned at birth, and his real parents were now dead. Her daughter, whom she named Rosy, grew up at Gordon’s side, and it was a known fact amongst the gypsies
that the pair would one day wed, such was their obvious love for each other.

Now our tale takes its characters on a troublesome and dangerous journey in which old Fate himself takes a fiery hand.

It so happened that as our band of gypsies was going from one place to another, they met a colourful regiment of Irish Dragoons who were marching to take up arms with Argyle against the Earl of
Mar. Gordon was instantly struck by the uniforms and manners of the soldiers and had to enquire of them where they were going. Now, since this particular regiment was renowned for enlisting any
able-bodied male who just happened by, the sergeant was quick to work his charm on the innocent Gordon. He regaled him with tales of daring exploits and battles and soon had our laddie wanting a
bite of this cherry. The wily sergeant asked Gordon to repeat an oath of allegiance, then handed him the King’s shilling, his payment as a serving soldier of King James.

‘Rosy, you away hame an tell ma mither I’m awa tae fight a battle. Tell her when I’m done I’ll be back.’ That said, and grasping the silver shilling tightly in his
hand, he hugged the sobbing Rosy and was gone. Back at the campsite Jeannie was beside herself with grief, and believed this was the Lord’s punishment for keeping him all those years ago. At
once she donned black garb and took to her closed tent, uttering not a single word. Poor wee Rosy did the same. They were of the same mind: their beloved Gordon was lost to them forever.

Soon the Dragoons along with the new recruit arrived at Stirling to join Argyle, who’d had word that the Highlanders’ champion, Mar, was rapidly heading towards them to engage them
in battle. They met at Sherriffmuir, and oh, my, the terror of old death spread itself evenly over the field of blood. In the midst of the battle young Gordon fought, not for Lowland or Highland,
but struck out for his very own life. For it soon dawned on his good self that, victor or loser, his kind would be treated the same, as all gypsies were. After he had felled more than six big
Highlanders he made the decision—to throw down his weapon and make tracks for home. Suddenly, however, a young officer was thrown from his horse in front of him. A heavy broadsword rose in
the air wielded by yet another wild warrior from the north. Gordon had no stomach for this fight, but he felt duty bound to save this young calvaryman. Just as the enemy was about to drop his sword
on the neck of his victim, Gordon ran him through with his bayonet. The Highlander fell like a stone, and Gordon had saved the young man’s life.

With that he fled from the field of murder and mayhem, running until night and exhaustion engulfed him. After weeks’ living rough, he eventually found his way to the quiet serenity of his
campsite, and collapsed. Rosy and Jeannie were as overjoyed as if heaven itself had opened.

‘Ye’re hame, ma boy, God has, this day, been too kind.’ Jeannie’s face was streaked with tears that she’d held back for so long. ‘Promise me you’ll
never go away from us again, please, laddie.’

‘Mother, thon soldiering is bad doings right enough, and it’s not for a gypsy laddie. Aye, ye’ll never see me take arms agin ony man, it’s my promise to ye and the guid
Lord. We gypsies have nae enemies, mother,’ he added. Then he turned to Rosy and said, ‘I was hardly thinking of ever seeing your bonny wee face again, sweet lassie. Soon we’ll be
wed, if it’s yer aim.’

‘Gordon, nothing in this earth could guide me away from a lifetime with you. Oh aye, its ma aim right enough—yes, yes, and a thousand times yes!’

The band of gypsies felled a tree, chopped it up, then piled the grandest fire and celebrated until the moorcock went hoarse. Later, when all was still, Jeannie asked God not to take Gordon from
her but instead to grant her the strength and the right moment to disclose the old truth about her adopted son. She would pick her moment, but not yet. For now, his happiness was enough to soothe
her troubled breast.

Soon life as a wandering band took on its familiar duties. Cutting river reeds, drying them and working hard producing baskets. It was while selling those baskets that the hand of fate was to
once again hold Gordon in its tight grip. At Jedburgh it was, in the town square where two soldiers just happened to be passing a quiet hour when they recognised him. ‘Hey lad,’ called
one, ‘you took arms for the King at Sherriffmuir?’

Thinking no harm in answering, Gordon replied, ‘I did indeed’.

‘Then you’re a deserter, come with us.’ Those words had hardly left their lips when our bold lad was shackled and marched away. Struggling, he called back to the completely
dumbfounded Rosy, ‘Tell ma mither, but God help me, I love ye baith, an ye’ll be my last thoughts on this earth, Rosy.’

Now when poor Jeannie heard this, she was convinced her God had not forgiven her and was determined to punish her for keeping the wee cradled baby all those years ago. Again she and Rosy donned
black and went into the darkened tent to console each other, thinking Gordon was now lost forever!

In no time Gordon had been marched into Edinburgh Castle and tried for desertion, and next we find him standing prepared to meet his doom on the sands of Portobello.

‘Here,’ said the head of the execution party, handing him a hood, ‘this will help the shock o’ seeing whit’s coming.’

‘I’ll see whit ever ye have. It’s a gypsy I am and we see the setting sun and the rising moon, so you can put that black demon o’ a hat away.’ As the sergeant
walked away, Gordon filled his thoughts with his bonny Rosy and old Jeannie who had carried him through snow and wild blizzards, without help or care from any other body. Then he waited on the
order to fire.

Now it was normal for Argyle to take his horse onto the sands to see that his men carried out their duties properly. And this he just happened to do on that fateful day.

As he approached Gordon he noticed something familiar about the condemned man.

Before the firearms were raised he dismounted and went over to Gordon. ‘Did you take arms with me on the bloody field at Sherriffmuir?’ he asked.

‘Aye, I was there,’ answered Gordon, wishing to God this task was done.

‘Do you remember a cavalryman falling from his steed and nearly run through by a Highlander?’

‘If ye dinnae mind, man, but thon bullets are waiting in their barrels and I’m feeling the fear o’ things.’

‘Yes, no doubting you are, but tell me quickly, were you the man who saved the cavalryman?’

‘Yes, my bayonet came between the two.’

At that Argyle ordered Gordon’s execution to be halted, then turned and said, ‘I was that man whom you saved, I owe you my life.’

When Argyle discovered Gordon had been enlisted without properly understanding a soldier’s lot he had him pardoned. To add to our lad’s astonishment, the gent gave him, for his
trouble, a bag of sovereigns. And, snatched once again from the jaws of fate, our lad made his way home. I’ll leave it to your imagination, reader, as to the welcome he received. Now all that
remained was for him to marry Rosy and, perhaps, to build a strong tent for his mother’s old age. But before that, let’s see what the wily old hand of fate unleashes.

It was a beautiful morning. After weeks of rain the band of gypsies found themselves, as they were at the opening of my tale, just outside Hawick. Rosy and Gordon were quietly watching the
fast-flowing river curl and turn in her natural contours. A gentleman fishing in a salmon-cobble waved to them as the water took him downstream. Inside her tent, Jeannie had taken the decision to
tell Gordon the truth, and what better place, aye, reader!

Suddenly, though, a shout from the fisherman that he had lost his paddles sent Gordon diving into the river to save the man, who was becoming more distressed by the moment. Rosy ran as fast as
her legs could stretch to summon help from her fellow travellers. Jeannie heard the commotion and made toward the riverbank. When her eyes fell upon the distressed gentleman the memory of that day
came flooding back. ‘God and not fate shows his hand this day,’ she thought. What did she mean?

In no time Gordon had reached the swirling cobble and was soon guiding it into shallow water. Two men helped the mariner from his wobbly boat as Rosy wrapped her lad with a blanket. Jeannie
brought the man into her tent, Gordon and Rosy followed. ‘Madam,’ said the gratified fisherman, ‘is this your son? For he has the thanks of a stupid old man, and although I am
that, and no doubting it, I am also of considerable wealth and I will put no limit on the purse he will receive as thanks.’

Jeannie stared at her guest for a few lingering moments, then said, ‘you have no need to give Gordon anything, sir, but if you sit down I shall give you a gift.’

Bewildered at the old gypsy’s words he sat back on a meagre but comfortable seat, and asked her to continue.

‘Gordon and Rosy, what I now tell this man is for your ears too.’ She beckoned them also to sit down. When all were seated, old Jeannie Gordon began. ‘I recognise you, sir, to
be the Honourable Mr Riddle, the Provost of Hawick. Is that right?’

‘Yes, madam, that I am.’

‘Do you have a son?’

‘If you know of me, madam, then you know also that the raging river that almost ended me this day took my only son from me.’

‘How long ago, Provost, did that dreadful deed take place?’

‘If you know of me, woman, then you will also be aware my dearest baby was swallowed by the water some twenty year gone. Now I must be home. How much reward, young man, do you
require?’

Gordon said that none was necessary.

‘Sir,’ Jeannie continued, ‘this day God has brought your child home to you!’

‘What evil spirit has hold o’ ye wife, for you to utter such terrible words to an old suffering man?’

‘See yer boy, Riddle, the lad who pulled ye from the river stands beside ye!’

Jeannie sank to her knees, and at long last the pain of concealing the truth left her in great waves of relief, as she told them of the water-cradled Gordon. Old Provost Riddle was shaking as he
moved closer to Gordon and examined his features. ‘Yes, ye have yer mither’s eyes and my very ain father’s high cheekbones, is this my son standing here? God, woman, a thousand
curses on ye if this is a lie.’

‘I am from the gypsy, sir, and if you know anything about us then you will know we cannot lie.’

All the time Gordon and Rosy stood silently, holding tightly onto each other’s hands.

Gordon spoke first: ‘Mither, have I saved the life of my father this day?’