On Carrick Shore by Alex J. Wright

Author:Alex J. Wright [Wright, Alex J.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: The Choir Press
Published: 2018-04-15T22:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 15

Saturday September 1st

The breeze from the sea lifted the skirts of the women and stirred the ribbons on their caps as the crowd on the Borough Muir gathered for the hanging. There was an almost holiday atmosphere as folk called cheerful greetings to friends and neighbours and hoisted children on their shoulders to get a better view of the edifying spectacle of justice being done. The smell of twopenny ale mingled with that of unwashed clothes and the meaty odour of mutton pies.

The crowd was exceptionally large as the condemned man, a member of one of Ayr’s leading families, had been found guilty of a particularly heinous murder which had profoundly shocked the whole community. Bets were laid: would he make a good end or would he have to be dragged screaming to the gallows?

Tom stood on the raised platform beside the ladder which in a few moments he would have to climb to be launched into eternity. He could see the stern face of his father, the steadfast gaze of his brother, wishing him courage, and the weeping figures of his mother and Alison, clinging together for support. Further off stood Bob and Jeanie – he hoped Jeanie’s pies had sold well – and Mrs Cunningham, draped in black widow’s weeds, supported by Adam Kennedy. Lastly, he spied the gloomy figure of James Cunningham, wearing an expression of grim satisfaction.

Tom felt curiously detached from proceedings – what was life, after all? Feeling the hangman’s hand on his shoulder, he turned towards the ladder . . .

“Thomas, Thomas,” cried a voice and rough hands shook him by the shoulder. Tom awoke with a start, blinking in the light of a candle held close to his face. Relief that he had only been dreaming was swiftly followed by despair as reality came flooding back and he recognised his father’s voice.

“Get up, Tom, we’re going hame.”

The remnants of his dream still clung to Tom’s consciousness as, dazed, he stumbled after his father through the open cell door and along the grim passageway, past the grinning old gaoler. “Ye’ll be back soon, laddie,” he called as father and son went out into the bustling street where Bob waited with the family coach.

“How...?” he asked his father as soon as they were under way.

“Dinnae speir ower much, my lad. Let’s just say these lodges are handy, whiles. I went tae the sheriff as soon as I heard and he’s released ye intae my custody, for a week.”

“A week?”

“Aye, nae mair, an’ ye’re no’ tae leave hame nor gang oot without a member o’ the household wi’ ye.”

“What guid can that dae? They may as weel hang me noo and be finished wi’ it.”

Tom’s voice rose on a note of despair and he clutched at his neck, where he fancied he felt the noose tighten.

“Wheesht, noo, son,” said Sir Malcolm. “We’ll talk when ye’ve eaten.”

*

That afternoon there was a family conference at Barnessie House. Ranged round the table were Sir Malcolm and Lady Margaret,

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