Merkland: or, Self Sacrifice

The crisis had come. Mr. Whittret the lawyer, and Mr. Fitzherbert, stood in the middle of a knot of Macalpines; a party of sheriff’s-officers hung in the rear, and the youthful Giles Sympelton stood apart, looking on. The high head of Duncan Macalpine towered over the rest. In his moral chieftainship he was the spokesman of his neighbors. He was speaking when Mr. Lumsden approached.

“Your rent is ready, Sir – the maist of us are ready with your rent; but oh! if there is a heart of flesh within ye, spare us our hames! Gentlemen, we have a’ been born here. Yon auld man,” and Duncan pointed to the venerable white head of a trembling old man, wrapped in a plaid, who leaned against the lintel of the nearest cottage – ”and he’s past a century – is the only ane amang us that was a living soul at the flitting. For pity’s sake, Sir, think o’t! Gie us time to make up the siller. We’ll pay the next half-year in advance, if better mayna be; but do not bid us leave the glen.”

“That’s all very well,” said Fitzherbert, “very pretty. A set of Scotch cheats, who only want to deceive Lord Gillravidge.”

“I want to deceive no man,” said the humble chief of Oranmore, indignantly. “I wouldna set my face to a lee for a’ his revenues. I am a head of a family, and a decent man, in God’s providence, Sir; and I gie ye my word, that if ye’ll just give us time, we’ll make up the next half-year’s rent in advance. His Lordship is a stranger, and maybe, doesna ken whether he can trust us or no. Mr. Ferguson will bear us witness, Sir – the Laird himsel will bear us witness. Mr. Lumsden – Guid be thankit he is here himsel! – the minister will bear us witness!”

Mr. Lumsden entered the circle, hailed by various salutations. “Blessings on him! He never fails when he’s needed.” “He’ll bear witness to us that we’re honest folk.” And one indignant outcry from Duncan’s sister: “Ye’ll believe the minister!”

“What is the matter, Duncan?” said Mr. Lumsden.

“The gentlemen have come for our rent, Sir; we’re ahin’ hand. I make nae wonder that folk new to the countryside mayna trust us; but oh! if they would but pit us on trial. I promise, in the name of all in the glen – ye’re a’ hearing me? – that, though it should take our haill substance, we’ll pay the siller just and faithfully, as we have aye dune, if we only can bide upon our ain land.”

“You own land!” echoed Fitzherbert. “Fellow! the land is Lord Gillravidge’s.”

Big Duncan Macalpine’s honest face flushed deeply.

“I am nae fellow, Sir; and the land belangs to us by an aulder tenure than can give it to ony foreign lord. We are clansmen of the Laird’s. Langsyne our chief sold our land further north – instead of it we got this glen. I say, Sir, that the land is ours. – We were born and bred in it; our fathers fought for it langsyne. We hold it on an auld tenure – aulder than ony lordship in thae pairts. Our forebears were content to follow their chief when he threw his ain hills into the hands of strangers. We got this instead of our auld inheritance. I say, Sir, that the land is ours – that no man has a right to take it from us. Mr. Whittret, ye’re a lawyer – am I no speaking true?”

“Bah! You’re a cheat!” exclaimed Fitzherbert.

Big Duncan’s muscular arm shook nervously. He restrained himself with an effort. Not so his vehement sister Jean.

“Wha daurs say sic a name to Duncan Macalpine? Wha daurs disbelieve his word, standing in Oranmore? A feckless, ill-favored fuil, wi’ as muckle hair about the filthy face o’ him as wad hang him up in a tree, as the prodigal Absalom hung langsyne. – A cheat! If Big Duncan Macalpine wasna caring mair for his folk and name than for himsel, ye wad hae been spinning through the air afore now, in your road to the low country, ye ill-tongued loon!”

“Whisht, Jean! – whisht!” said her brother. “What needs we heed ill word? We’re langer kent it in Oranside than the gentleman.”

Duncan drew himself up in proud dignity. The puny “gentleman” – a thing of yesterday – was insignificant in the presence of the cottar of Oranmore – a true heritor of the soil.

“You do not mean, gentleman,” said Mr. Lumsden, – ”I trust you do not mean to take any extreme proceedings. I rejoice to be able to give my testimony to the sterling honor and integrity of Duncan Macalpine and his kinsmen of Oranmore. Lord Gillravidge cannot have better, or more honorable tenants. I entreat – I beg that time may be given them to make a representation of their case to his Lordship. He is new to the country, and may not know that these men are not ordinary tenants – that they have, as they truly say, a right to the soil. Mr. Whittret, you cannot refuse them your influence with Lord Gillravidge – you know their peculiar claim?”

“They might have a claim upon Mr. Sutherland,” said the agent, gloomily. “They can have none upon Lord Gillravidge.”

“Lord Gillravidge is bound to preserve ancient rights,” exclaimed Mr. Lumsden. “It is not possible he can know the circumstances. These men are not ordinary cottars, Mr. Whittret – you understand their position. For pity’s sake do not drive them to extremity!”

“It cannot be helped,” said Mr. Whittret, bending his dark brows, and shunning the clear eye of the minister: “I must adhere to my instructions, Sir. These hill-lands are already let to a stock-farmer. I must proceed.”

“There can be no need for haste, at least,” said Mr. Lumsden. “The new tenant cannot enter till Whit-Sunday. Let the Macalpines stay – let them remain until the term.”

Mr. Whittret lifted his eyes in furtive malice, with a glance of that suspicious cunning which perpetually fancies it is finding others out.

“And have Lord Gillravidge called a tyrant and oppressor for removing the people after their seed is sown? You are very good, Mr. Lumsden – we know how clerical gentlemen can speak. We shall take our own plan. Simpson, begin your work.”

A detached cottage, the furthest out of the group, stood close upon the Oran – the narrow streamlet, a mere mountain burn so near its source, was spanned there by white stepping-stones. A woman in a widow’s cap stood at the cottage-door, looking out with a silent want of wonder, which told plainly enough that some mightier interest prevented her from sharing in the excitement of her neighbors. The men approached the house, and after summoning her to leave it instantly, a summons which the poor woman heard in vacant astonishment, immediately prepared to unroof her humble habitation. The crowd of Macalpines had been looking on in breathless silence. Now there was a wild shriek of excitement and fury – men and women precipitated themselves at once upon the minions of that ruthless law which was not justice. – The ladder was thrown down; the hapless officer who had been the first to mount it, struggled in the hands of two strong young men; and Jean Macalpine, a tall athletic woman, stood before the terrified widow in the doorway, another officer prostrate at her feet. Mr. Fitzherbert and Whittret rushed forward – their satellites formed themselves together for resistance – the Macalpines furiously surrounded the cottage – there promised to be a general melee. But loud above the noise and tumult sounded the united voices of Big Duncan, and his minister.

“Jean Macalpine,” shouted the chief of Oranmore, “come out from among this senseless fray. Dugald Macalpine, quit the man: why will ye pollute your hands striving with him? Donald Roy, let go your hold. Gentlemen, gentlemen, haud your hands, and hear me.”

There was a momentary truce.

“Beware!” said Mr. Lumsden. “Within that house lies an invalid – if you expose that sinking lad, you will have a death to answer for. I tell you, beware!”

“Gentlemen,” said Big Duncan Macalpine, “yon house is mine. I protest, in the name of my people, that ye are doing an unrighteous and unlawful thing. I beg ye, as ye are Christian men, that ken what hames are, to let us bide in our ain glen and country. – In honor, and honesty, and leal service we will pay ye for your mercy; but if ye are determined to carry on this work, unrighteous as it is in the sight of God and man, begin yonder – take my house. I was born in it – I thocht to die in it – begin with my house; but if ye would escape a curse and desolation, leave the hame of the widow.”

There was a pause – the invading party were in a dilemma. – The very officials were moved by the manly disinterestedness of Big Duncan Macalpine. He himself strode to the side of the lads who had pulled the man from the ladder, and freed him from their grasp: then he gathered the Macalpines together, spoke a word of comfort to the widow, and placing himself by the door of her cottage, looked calmly towards his own house and waited.

Mr. Whittret stood undecided. Fitzherbert was furious. He had already issued his orders to the men to proceed, when his arm was grasped from behind. He turned round – the Honorable Giles Sympelton was at his elbow, his simple youthful face quivering with emotion.

“Fitz, Fitz,” cried the lad, “stop this – I cannot bear it. I wll’ not see it; if you destroy that noble fellow’s house I will never enter Gillravidge’s again. Take care what you do – they are better men than we.”

Mr. Whittret looked up. Mr. Lumsden had his note-book in his hand, and was writing. The mean soul of the agent writhed within him. That Mr. Lumsden was writing an exposure of his conduct he never doubted; he would be covered with infamy and shame; at least it should not be without cause. “Simpson,” he cried, “take the fellow at his word – proceed with your work.”

Vain evil-thinking of the evil-doer! Mr. Lumsden, in fear of the compulsory removal of the invalid, was writing to his sister to send up a chase immediately from Portoran, and in a moment after, had despatched the most ungovernable of the lads to carry his note to the Manse.

Duncan Macalpine stood looking calmly at his cottage. His sister Jean, following his heroic example, had hurried into it, and now returned, leading a feeble woman of seventy – their mother. Duncan’s wife stood beside her husband; two of his little boys lingered in childish wonder by the cottage door. The men began their odious work – the straw bands were cut, the heather thatch thrown in pieces on the ground. The children looked on at first in half-amused astonishment. They saw their home laid open to the sky with all its homely accommodations – their own little bed, their grandmother’s chair by the fire, the basket of oatcakes on the table from which their “eleven-hours piece” had been supplied. The eldest of them suddenly rushed forward in childish rage and vehemence, and springing upon the ladder, dealt a fruitless blow at one of the devastators. He was thrown off – a piece of the thatch struck upon his head – the child uttered a sharp cry and fell. His mother flew out from among the crowd. The Macalpines were shaken as with a wind, and with various cries of rage and grief were pressing forward again. Again Big Duncan stayed them. “Fuils that ye are, would ye lose your guid fame with your hames? would ye throw everything away? Be still I tell you. Can I no guard my ain bairn mysel?”

The wave fell back: muttering in painful anger, the Macalpines obeyed the king-man among them, and restrained themselves. Big Duncan in his stern patience went forward. Before him, however, was a slight boyish figure, with uncovered head and long fair hair – the child was lifted in the youth’s arms, “I will carry him – good woman, come with me – come away from this place. It is not right you should see it – come away.”

“I thank ye, young gentleman,” said Big Duncan: “it becomes a young heart to shrink from the like of this, but we maun stay. Neither my wife nor me can leave the glen till we leave it with our haill people.”

Giles Sympelton hurried on to the widow’s cottage with the boy. The child was not much hurt – he was only stunned; and attended by his mother and aunt, he was taken into the house. Sympelton placed himself in front of the Macalpines by Mr. Lumsden’s side.

The destruction went on – you could trace its progress by the agonized looks of these watching people. Now a sharp, sudden cry from some distressed mother, that bore witness the destroyers were throwing down the roof under which her little ones had been born. Now a long, low groan told the father’s agony. The young men were shutting out the sight with their hands – they could not school themselves to patience; the little children, clinging about their feet, kept up a plaintive cry of shrill dismay and wonder, the chorus of that heart-breaking scene. House after house, un-windowed, roofless, and doorless, stood in mute desolation behind the hirelings of the unjust law, as their work went on. At last it was completed, and they approached the widow’s cottage again. There was an instant forgetfulness of individual suffering. Closely, side by side, the Macalpines surrounded the house of the widow. These strong men were dangerous opponents – even these excited women might be formidable to meet at such a time. The officers held back.

“I implore – I beseech!” cried Mr. Lumsden, “spare this house! Leave the sick youth within to die in peace. Leave us this one asylum for the aged and the feeble. If ye are men, spare the widow – spare the boy!”

“Fitz!” cried Giles Sympelton, in a tone of indignant appeal.

Mr. Whittret was enraged and furious.

“Lose no time, Simpson!” he cried. “It is three o’clock already. Make haste and finish!”

Big Duncan Macalpine stood undecided.

“It’s a life!” he muttered. “It’s lawful to defend a life, at any risk or hazard! Sir – Mr. Lumsden – what will we do?”

Mr. Lumsden made another appeal. It was useless. More peremptorily still the agent ordered the men to proceed.

“Duncan,” said Mr. Lumsden, “for the sake of the Gospel you profess, and for your own sake, let there be no resistance! Lift the boy out – protect him as you best can; we must leave the issue in God’s hands. Brethren, give way to the officers. You can only bring further evil on yourselves. You cannot deliver the widow. Sirs, stand back till we are ready – we will give you space for your work then. The consequences be upon your own heads!”

The minister entered the cottage, and passed through among the patriarchs of the sorrowful community, who were sheltering from the chill March wind, under the only remaining roof in the glen. In a moment after he reappeared, bearing the sick lad, a helpless burden, in his strong arms. A cry rose from the women – the men clenched their fingers, and gnashed their teeth. The sharp, pale face raised itself above Mr. Lumsden’s arm – the feeble invalid was strong with excitement.

“Be quiet, oh! be quiet – dinna do ill for my sake!”

“And now,” cried Big Duncan, “I bid ye to my house – all of ye that are Macalpines. Leave the birds of prey to their work – come with me!”

The people obeyed. They formed themselves into a solemn procession: the tremulous old man, whose years outnumbered a century, leaning upon two stalwart grandsons; the aged woman, Duncan Macalpine’s mother, supported on her son’s arm; strong men restraining by force which shook their vigorous frames the natural impulse to resistance; mothers, with compressed lips, shutting in the agony of their hearts – the train of weeping, bewildered children! The March wind swept keen and biting over them as they passed by their own desolate houses in stern silence, and assembled again, further up the glen. The work was accomplished. The last cottage in Oranmore was dismantled and roofless. The Macalpines were without a home!

CHAPTER XX