The Hanging of Margaret Dickson (14 page)

Maggie collapses to the ground, red-faced and covered with sweat. For a while she lies on the floor catching her breath, her face staring into a blue sky.

‘Get up, lass,' he says. He knows how she doesn't likes to lose.

‘I don't like offal anyway,' she shrugs.

They walk home, hand in hand until they reach Arthur's Seat where another race is underway. Twelve pregnant brewster wives are already halfway up the 822 foot summit having already raced from Figgat Burn. A Dutch midwife waits at the bottom clutching a budgell of Dunkeld aquavitae and Brunswick rum.

Maggie laughs. ‘I'm glad the midwife is here. She'll not be short of customers once they descend the peak.'

Patrick nods his head in agreement. ‘Those ale wives have a taste for the strong stuff; they'll race to hell and back for a wee dram.'

Maggie points ahead at the summit. ‘Look at the red-haired one punching the other in the ribs.'

‘And you thought your race was tough.'

Maggie places her hands on her hips. ‘Our race was longer. We had much further to run.'

‘Aye, Maggie, but you did not have to climb the summit with your belly full of baby.'

Maggie huffs. ‘That's nothing. I've walked to the market carrying a bairn and a full creel of fish, day in day out since I met you.'

‘You've been permanently with child since we married?' he asks, one eyebrow arched.

‘Well it feels like it.'

‘I'm teasing you. I know you fisher lassies are a tough lot. Did I ever tell you about when my mother was carrying me? Well this particular day her creel was full to the top. When her pains started midway to market she had to stop at a farm to deliver the baby. Anyway, the kind farmer, Patrick was his name; well he got his wife to look after her new-born baby while my mother continued to Edinburgh to sell her fish. And mother, well she collected me on her way home. She named me after the farmer.'

‘That's impressive, Patrick. She's a fine woman, you must be proud of her.'

‘Aye, I am that.'

With the sound of sea roaring in their ears and the sun sinking on the horizon, Patrick places his arm around his wife as they walk home. The sky's a hazy pink, sea birds glide in the shape of a ‘v' to distant lands, and below them a frothy sea sparkles on the surface.

***

After he makes love to her, he falls asleep. For a moment or two she watches him, her eyes drawn to the rise and fall of his upper body. His body hair is coarse and wiry and the colour of fire, not at all like the blacksmith's. Is it wrong to compare them? Does she really care?
Better to be unfaithful than to be faithful without wanting to be
, she thinks. To hell with the kirk and the Lord, and all those who think her a whore.
Anyway
, she thinks to herself,
isn't life like being a whore? All give and take
.

***

Married six years, he can hardly believe it. Is it six or seven? He can't remember. Lately he dreads returning home, for fear of finding Maggie in the arms of another man, and he's terrified. The gossip persists, along with the finger pointing and sniggering. In the midst of the turmoil Maggie's conduct towards him remains flippant, dismissive even. And to make matters worse, every time he sets out to confront her, he loses his nerve. With his head in his hands, he groans out loud – what he needs is a stiff drink. And where there's drink, there's Duncan.

Duncan is in the Musselburgh Arms. He's near the bar as usual, his hands buried within a buxom tavern wench's top.

‘What's down there, fair maiden?' Duncan slurs.

The wench laughs and shoves him away.

At the sight of Patrick, Duncan widens his eyes. ‘What brings you here, fisherman?'

‘The same as you – drink. Do you want me to buy you one?'

Duncan's eyes glitter. ‘Aye, I'll have a wee dram of whisky, Patrick. Thank you for asking.'

Patrick places a drink in front of Duncan and takes a dram himself, and then another. ‘That's strong stuff,' he chokes on the fiery liquid as it burns his throat.

Duncan eyes him with a curious stare. ‘Take your time, son. What's the rush? Is anything the matter?'

‘Everything is fine. Shall we have another?'

‘Why not? Let's drink to this tavern,' Duncan raises his tankard in a toast. ‘The Musselburgh Arms.'

Patrick raises his drink. ‘The Musselburgh Arms.'

‘That'll put some powder in your musket,' says Duncan.

Several drams later Patrick glances up at a spinning ceiling, the rafters are a blur of bottles and broken tankards, and all the while the noise of laughter and chatter drones in his ears. His tongue is swollen in his mouth, he's parched and so he plunges his hands into his pockets, the tips of his fingers brushing strange objects as he rummages around. But all he can find is a neck chief, a clay pipe and a rusty nail. He has no money and only a mouthful of drink left.

‘Duncan. Where are you?'

Patrick twists around and near falls from his stool. Duncan is nowhere to be seen. A cold sweat covers his forehead as he searches the inn, shadows and distorted silhouettes dance all around him. All of a sudden he is so desperately weary, and so he allows his head to sag. Then there's a bump as the room turns on its side, as one clammy cheek presses against an ale sodden table.

***

The pressman stands up, buttons his coat, picks up his tankard and downs his ale in one. Next he takes out his purse and selects a shiny coin. Time is up. He moves with conviction towards his prey, a swagger in his walk. The first thing he notices is the young man's hands, palms scarred by rope, an able seaman for sure. And in the blink of an eye, before anyone notices, he drops the King's shilling into Patrick's tankard, relishing the clanging noise as it hits the bottom.

‘Wake up, man. You and I have business to attend to.'

The innkeeper groans. ‘Not here, take your business elsewhere.'

The pressman stands his ground, hands on hips, his long legs slightly apart. He's a formidable presence, especially once he lifts his red jacket aside to reveal his weapon.

‘Mind your own business, innkeeper. Need I remind you that enlistment into the naval service is voluntary, and if numbers are low, men between the ages fifteen and fifty-five are fair game.'

‘The fisherman hasn't taken the King's shilling.' The innkeeper points at Patrick slumped over the table.

‘He will, mark my word. It's in his tankard; he'll sup his drink in a moment. Too much ale makes a man thirsty.'

‘You should have asked for a glass-bottomed tankard, you idiot,' shouts some smart arse from the other side of the tavern.

‘It
has
a glass bottom,' the pressman shrugs and smacks Patrick on the cheek. ‘But he's too drunk to notice. Let's see, shall we?'

As predicted Patrick sits up and sups the last of his drink. The tavern is suddenly silent – folk waiting with baited breath for the outcome. They soon have their answer. Patrick of a sudden stands up, red-faced and swaying on his feet, a cough rattling from his throat…and then with an almighty sputter spits out the coin.

‘That's it. He's all mine.' The pressman calls out to some men loitering outside: ‘Grab an arm and a leg and get him on the cart.'

In a flash they are gone.

***

The man-o'-war ship is destined for battle, its purpose to fight the cause of English merchants in an age of trade wars, fighting against the French and Spanish for commercial pre-eminence. Patrick's only saving grace is that he's not aboard a slave ship. He's heard about them, and one thing is for sure, he would rather be aboard a fighting ship than on one carrying human cargo. The pressman informs him that he will be given a bounty of twenty-three shillings. He knows merchant seamen get double that, around fifty-five shillings a month. But he knows not to complain. The die is cast, and Patrick must make the best of it.

They set sail before Patrick has time to sober up. The sea is calm as he stands on mid-deck listening to able seamen's cries, already resigned to his fate. Throughout his time at sea he's amassed a great deal of knowledge, developing skills necessary for survival in a hostile environment. He's already trying to predict the wind direction and the weather, keeping a good weather eye open to the sky. If he's to survive, he must prove his worth; otherwise he will never get back
to land, and back to his Maggie.

He looks out to sea. It never fails to amaze him. How many men has it claimed? Suddenly the wind direction changes and the ship lurches. A number of men cry out and clutch their stomachs, green hands, and terrified the lot of them. Most of them have never set foot on a ship or boat in their lives. They are landlubbers, for sure. How he pities them, because they're in for a rough ride. Many a man dies at sea.

***

Maggie sits on her steps in a daze. The rumours are rife, and for once they are not about her. They all concern Patrick. Where is he? Weeks pass and still there is no sight of him. No one seems to know where he is, not even his doting mother. Every day she walks down to the rocks to look out to sea, but he never comes. And then she bumps into her father near the market cross.

‘Haven't you heard? He's been press-ganged. Where have you been?'

Maggie's hand goes up to her face, she covers her mouth. ‘No. Press-ganged? I don't believe you and anyway how would you know? You never spend any time with him.'

‘I was there. Well I was earlier that day at the Musselburgh Arms.'

‘Was you there or not?'

‘Aye.'

‘So why didn't you help him? And since when does Patrick have a dram with the likes of you? For goodness sake, he doesn't even drink.' Maggie dismisses her father and makes her way to the harbour. The fishermen are bound to know something.

‘He's probably gone to the fisheries or the keels at Newcastle,' an old mariner shrugs his bony shoulders. ‘There's plenty of work there.'

***

Widow Arrock walks towards Maggie's cottage at Fisherrow with purpose in her stride. She wonders if there's any truth in the rumours she's hearing. There are a few versions. The most popular one is that Patrick has been pressed into naval service, but there is other tittle-tattle and whispers too. Some folk say Patrick caught Maggie with the smithy's son, and the widow can well believe that. But the fishermen insist that Patrick's gone off to the fisheries or keels in Newcastle, fed up with her gallivanting ways. Either way she will get to the bottom of it.

***

A smile masks Maggie's face as she ushers the widow inside. Her true feelings come to the surface as she closes the door behind her, cursing and shouting as she pushes Patrick's fishing gear out of the way. The cottage is a mess; dirty pots cover the table, the smell of damp clothes and overflowing chamber pots linger in the air. The children look miserable.

‘What's got into you? Never heard of a washing line or a hedge to dry your clothes on? And for God's sake empty those chamber pots. The poor children, I expect they're missing their father?'

‘Missing their father? The bairns are used to it. Patrick's always coming and going.'

‘But not for this long, surely?'

Maggie shakes her head.

‘And whose fault is that? You know there is no one to blame in this sorry affair but yourself, Maggie. If your mother was alive, well, she'd tan the arse off you.'

Maggie lets out a high pitched shriek. ‘What did I do?'

‘Well folk say you've lifted your petticoats for half of Edinburgh and the blacksmith's son from what I hear. Heaven above, what were you thinking? I know he's handsome and strong but he's barely off the breast for goodness sake.'

‘Well what if I did! I was miserable and lonely.'

‘Don't you love your husband, Maggie?'

Maggie frowns. ‘What is love, Widow Arrock? My father always told me, “Maggie, love is a dung pile, and I'm the cock that crows from the top of it.” He's a canny one, my father.' Maggie shrugs.

‘Well that's a shame, Maggie, and typical. How fitting that a lass like you would take advice from her philanderer of a father. The apple does not fall far from the tree in your case. I can well believe you when you say that you have no idea what love is. But think about this, Maggie. That man worshipped you. He was loyal to you and laboured damn hard for you and the children, and this is how you repay him. You're a disgrace; you should be ashamed of yourself.'

Maggie shuffles in her seat, irritated that the widow should make her feel uncomfortable in her own home. And yet her most profound emotion is anger, and her cheeks burn a fiery red as she says her piece.

‘Aye. He's a saint and I'm a sinner. But where was he when I was hungry? And where was he when the bairns were hungry? I'll tell you the truth, shall I? I was lonely. I wanted to feel the love of a man. And he was nowhere to be seen.' Maggie wipes a tear of self-pity from her burning cheek.

The widow massages her forehead, her eyes screwed up in her head. ‘You're a selfish woman, Maggie, and you've absolutely no loyalty. Can't you see that I've come here to make you see reason? I'm trying to help you, so don't be angry with me. You've no one to be angry with but yourself. Now I'll hold my tongue. If you want to search for Patrick, I will take the bairns. But you have to vow to change your ways.'

‘I will,' Maggie nods.

The widow shakes her head, not quite believing her. ‘Right then. You need to visit the fisheries in Newcastle and speak to the keelmen – they might know a thing or two. Haven't you relatives near the Tyne?'

‘Aye, one of my aunt's lives there. I can stay with her for a while.'

The widow claps her hands together. ‘Well, that's it then. Pack up some belongings for yourself and the bairns, and then bring them to me. If he isn't at the fisheries, he's at sea, and you'll have to weather the storm.' She coughs, holding her chest. ‘In the meantime I would stay clear of his parents. They want to speak to you.'