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Authors: OBE Michael Nicholson
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again. Given a good summer, we shall have wheat and some good profit. Prices are high and, given another blight, they will go higher.’
‘You want another blight?
‘Yes, of course. It will do a lot of good, believe me. The famine will be a great help, a calamity to some but with a purpose for others. It puts these people out. Gets rid of them off good land. It allows us to bring it together and make some really profitable farms. There’s talk of bringing Scottish shepherds over and putting the land to sheep. You just see. Once this is all over, this country will be peaceful and profitable and who denies the common sense in that? If it wasn’t all for the good then why did God make it happen?’
She did not answer. There was no answer to give. She vowed never to see him again. She had known him to be a braggart. She had seen his ways with her father and knew he was a self-seeking sycophant. She had seen such young men in England yet none had been as callously cruel as Edward Ogilvie.
Ahead of them she saw a crowd gathered around a man dressed like a scarecrow. He had a pole down the back of his tattered coat and another that went through both arms. He had stuffed straw into the front of his vest and more came out from his sleeves. His face was smeared with chalk so that his eyes were bright and his lips protruded fleshy red. He moved with the jerky action of a clockwork doll, stiff, his limbs unbending, imitating a scarecrow buffeted by the wind. Then he stopped as still as a stone and the crowd marvelled at his cleverness. Somebody dropped a penny into his hand. He bowed and they clapped.
She saw a small boy standing in her way, quite still, captivated by the scarecrow. He was no higher than her stirrups. She did not hear Ogilvie shout to the boy to move aside. He did not shout a second time. He brought the bullwhip high above his head and lashed the boy, the tiny bags of grapeshot cutting his shirt apart and tearing open the skin on his back. The whip cracked again like the snapping of a dead branch and blood spurted from the boy’s legs. He cried out and fell. He did not move.
Kate jumped from her horse and ran to him. She held him in her arms, his blood staining her skirt. She looked for help. No one moved.
‘Someone help me,’ she shouted. ‘Help me carry him to my horse … Help me!’ No one came forward.
‘Curse you for your cowardice,’ she screamed at them. ‘All of you. Curse you for this!’
She turned. The end of Olgilvie’s whip with its leather pouches lay only a foot away from her. She grabbed and pulled it quick and hard. The whip handle was attached to a loop on his wrist and he was jerked off his saddle and hit the ground hard. He was a heavy man and the breath was knocked out of him. She ran towards him, took hold of the whip end again and hit him across the face. Blood ran down his neck as his men pulled her away.
She turned back. The boy was unconscious in the arms of a man.
‘Bring him here,’ she shouted to him. ‘Put him on the saddle and I will take him to a doctor.’
The man said. ‘There is no doctor here, miss. If there was, the gentleman would have him first.’
Ogilvie was helped away, limp and barely conscious. Bloodied rags covered his face.
‘Where can we take this boy?’ she asked the man. ‘Who will look after him? Where is his family?’
‘He has none,’ he replied. ‘But I know him. I will care for him.’
‘Then take my horse.’
‘It is not far, miss. I can manage.’
‘Please.’ She held the boy’s hand. The man nodded.
‘I am a schoolmaster. My name is Keegan and my schoolhouse is only a little way beyond the market. If you should come, I will ask the women to rinse your clothes. You cannot go to your home like that.’
The crowd was sullen and silent as they left. She had called them cowards and they knew that well enough themselves. But she had injured their landlord, made him look ridiculous in front of them and that was worse.
‘You want another blight?
‘Yes, of course. It will do a lot of good, believe me. The famine will be a great help, a calamity to some but with a purpose for others. It puts these people out. Gets rid of them off good land. It allows us to bring it together and make some really profitable farms. There’s talk of bringing Scottish shepherds over and putting the land to sheep. You just see. Once this is all over, this country will be peaceful and profitable and who denies the common sense in that? If it wasn’t all for the good then why did God make it happen?’
She did not answer. There was no answer to give. She vowed never to see him again. She had known him to be a braggart. She had seen his ways with her father and knew he was a self-seeking sycophant. She had seen such young men in England yet none had been as callously cruel as Edward Ogilvie.
Ahead of them she saw a crowd gathered around a man dressed like a scarecrow. He had a pole down the back of his tattered coat and another that went through both arms. He had stuffed straw into the front of his vest and more came out from his sleeves. His face was smeared with chalk so that his eyes were bright and his lips protruded fleshy red. He moved with the jerky action of a clockwork doll, stiff, his limbs unbending, imitating a scarecrow buffeted by the wind. Then he stopped as still as a stone and the crowd marvelled at his cleverness. Somebody dropped a penny into his hand. He bowed and they clapped.
She saw a small boy standing in her way, quite still, captivated by the scarecrow. He was no higher than her stirrups. She did not hear Ogilvie shout to the boy to move aside. He did not shout a second time. He brought the bullwhip high above his head and lashed the boy, the tiny bags of grapeshot cutting his shirt apart and tearing open the skin on his back. The whip cracked again like the snapping of a dead branch and blood spurted from the boy’s legs. He cried out and fell. He did not move.
Kate jumped from her horse and ran to him. She held him in her arms, his blood staining her skirt. She looked for help. No one moved.
‘Someone help me,’ she shouted. ‘Help me carry him to my horse … Help me!’ No one came forward.
‘Curse you for your cowardice,’ she screamed at them. ‘All of you. Curse you for this!’
She turned. The end of Olgilvie’s whip with its leather pouches lay only a foot away from her. She grabbed and pulled it quick and hard. The whip handle was attached to a loop on his wrist and he was jerked off his saddle and hit the ground hard. He was a heavy man and the breath was knocked out of him. She ran towards him, took hold of the whip end again and hit him across the face. Blood ran down his neck as his men pulled her away.
She turned back. The boy was unconscious in the arms of a man.
‘Bring him here,’ she shouted to him. ‘Put him on the saddle and I will take him to a doctor.’
The man said. ‘There is no doctor here, miss. If there was, the gentleman would have him first.’
Ogilvie was helped away, limp and barely conscious. Bloodied rags covered his face.
‘Where can we take this boy?’ she asked the man. ‘Who will look after him? Where is his family?’
‘He has none,’ he replied. ‘But I know him. I will care for him.’
‘Then take my horse.’
‘It is not far, miss. I can manage.’
‘Please.’ She held the boy’s hand. The man nodded.
‘I am a schoolmaster. My name is Keegan and my schoolhouse is only a little way beyond the market. If you should come, I will ask the women to rinse your clothes. You cannot go to your home like that.’
The crowd was sullen and silent as they left. She had called them cowards and they knew that well enough themselves. But she had injured their landlord, made him look ridiculous in front of them and that was worse.
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