The Conquest

by H. Bedford-Jones

Seven of those years were the happiest of all my life, perhaps. Ruth and I dwelt quiet at home, and between whiles of the work my mother taught us much that we had never known else. She was of good family, of the Eastoun Errols, and how she came to love my father, who was rough and rude, was always something of a mystery to me. But love him she did, and he her, and it was a bad day for Fergus MacDonald when my mother died.

This happening took place seven years after the coming of Ruth, and was a sore grief to all of us. I never realized just how sore a grief it was to my father, Fergus, until later. She was buried beside those of the Covenant who had escaped the harrying to die in peace, and I mind me that it was on a cold, gray day which gave us little cheer.

The elder, old Alec Gordon, had carried pistol and sword at Ayrsmoss, being given to preaching later in life. His mind was a bitter one, setting well with that of my father, and this day of my mother's funeral gave me a distaste for the men of the Covenant that I never outgrew. When it was all over I crept away and went down to the cliff-edge, where Ruth presently joined me, and we sat along with the heart-hunger that was eating at us until the night-mists warned us home.

For many days thereafter my father spoke few words, and of a sudden his age had come upon him, together with a strange unrest that I had not seen in him before. But still we abode there on the old farm until I was almost nineteen, and Ruth, as we guessed, a year younger. Then came the first of those strange happenings that led us so far afield and drew us into so weird a strand of Fortune's net before we had done.

Two years after my mother's death, my father began to have a succession of visitors. There was much talk in those days of the new lands over sea, and the rich farms to be had there for the taking. From what scattered words that came to us, Ruth and I judged rightly enough that these folk were talking of the plantations to my father, and so indeed it proved. Alec Gordon was the most constant visitor, and in time it came out that he would make a settlement in the new world, of a number of our folk. My father was much taken with the scheme, as were Muckle Jock Grier and Tam Graham, and others of the families near by. At length my father announced that the next day but one Ruth and I should go with him to Rathesby.

His temper was dour and sullen in these days, and I dared not question him overmuch, but Ruth got the truth of the matter out of him on the way to town. It seemed that the elder, Alec Gordon, had prevailed upon a dozen families to carry the Covenant to the New World, and there to found a settlement to the glory of God, where there would be none to interfere or hinder, and where, as my father put it, "a new folk might be given growth by the Lord's grace, free from the temptations of the world and the wiles of the devil." But there were more devils in the New World than my father or old Alec wotted of.

I think he was much moved to this end by thought of Ruth and me, for he was earnest that we should follow in his footsteps and grow up God-fearing, respected young folk such as Lang Robin Grier. Now I ever was, and am still, I trust, God-fearing; but sour faces were little to my liking, and ranting Lang Robin much less. I mind me that when Robin would have impressed some doctrinal point upon Ruth, with many wise sayings and much doubting that her mind was sound in the faith, I went home with sore knuckles, and Robin went home with a sore face and a story that wrought much discredit upon me. Howbeit, to my tale.

We rode into Rathesby, where my father was to see Wat Herries, the master of the stout lugger that sailed to Ireland and France and beyond, and that even then lay in Rathesby bay. Smaller vessels than the "Lass o' Dee" had passed overseas in safety, and my father trusted in the hand of God more than he trusted in the hand of Wat Herries.

It was still early morn when we reached the port and put up our ponies at the Purple Heather, kept by old Gib Lennox. Then my father told me to wander at my will, taking good care of Ruth and returning at midday, while he strode off in search of Master Herries. The "Lass," we found, was newly come from France, and in her crew were many dark-faced fellows whose tongue sounded sweet in the ears of Ruth, so that we had to stop more than once and listen.

In the front of her cloak, now a modest gray one, she wore that same brooch with which she had come to us. I had hard work to keep her from speaking to the strange men in their own tongue, but after a time we came to the edge of the town and sat there among the rocks, well content to watch the lugger in the harbor and the fishing boats that lay around her.