Flower o' the Heather: A Story of the Killing Times

by Robert William MacKenna

Sometimes, in the darkness, when my back ached beyond endurance as I bent over some unaccustomed task, I would cease for a moment to feel for that little bit of metal lying over my heart that was all that remained of the ring I had given her. And its touch would give me courage and my weariness would disappear.

Hector, I discovered, was a master of all the arts of agriculture. No task seemed too heavy for him, and never have I seen a man so proficient at shearing sheep or with such a subtle way of pacifying a querulous dog. Dogs, indeed, were one of the dangers that beset us, for more than once we spent the night at work on a farm which was in the occupation of the soldiery. If the farm dog had but given the alarm, we might have found ourselves surrounded and shot on the instant, or compelled to flee for our lives. But no dog ever barked at Hector. There was some indefinable understanding between him and the faithful creatures. A startled collie would raise its head and thrust forward its snout as though about to alarm the night, but, at a whisper from Hector, it would steal up to him and rub its head and shoulders in comradeship against his legs. This sympathy between himself and the dogs made for our safety, and there was something else which helped. Most of the troopers were creatures of the grossest superstition, thrilled with an uncanny dread of warlocks, witches, and all the evil spirits of the night. Their bloody deeds by day filled their nights with ghostly terrors, and more than once I have known them desert a farm--upon which they had descended to devour its substance like the locusts--headlong and in fear when they found that the "brownies" had been at work in the fields by night. To them it had become a place uncanny, and they would hastily take their departure, to the no small joy of the farmer's wife and her little children. To the children a visit of the "brownies" was a thing to be hailed with delight and shy amazement.

Once, after a heavy night's work, Hector and I were resting in the early dawn beneath a hedgerow ere we set out upon our long journey to the cave, when I heard the voices of children on the road. I looked through the hedge and saw a little boy leading his sister by the hand. They climbed upon the bars of the gate and surveyed the field before them. Then the quiet of the morning was broken by the shrill voice of the lad, who, pointing to the mown hay, shouted:

"Aggie, Aggie, the brownies ha'e been here," and, leaping down from the gate so quickly as to capsize his sister, who, awed by the mystery, did not burst into tears, he rushed along the road to the house calling at the top of his voice: "Oh, mither, mither, come and see. The brownies ha'e been working in the hay-field and the hay is a' cut. Oh, I wish my faither knew."

We waited till--at the urgent summons of her little son--the woman had walked down the road to the gate and had surveyed our handiwork. We saw her stoop, pick up her children, and kiss them fondly. Then she turned away that they might not see her tears, and, at the sight, our own hearts grew strangely full. We waited until she had taken her little ones home, and then we stole away.

"Puir lassie," said Hector, "puir lassie."

During the day I rarely ventured from the cave, though now and then Hector would fare forth in daylight on mysterious errands of his own. I suspected that he had some tryst to keep with the widow at Locharbriggs, but he did not take me into his confidence. But usually he and I were birds of the night. We were busy folk, and the minister was no less occupied. Messages would come to him mysteriously; how, I was never able to discover; but by some means he was kept informed not only as to the doings and welfare of his own flock, but as to the larger happenings throughout the whole country-side. He knew what men had been compelled to flee from their homes; which others had been haled to Edinburgh and put to torture in the hope that the persecutors might wring from them some confession. He knew the houses which had been touched by the hand of sorrow, and with no thought of self he would steal forth to offer what consolation he could. His quiet bravery impressed me deeply, and I found myself developing a lively admiration for him which rapidly grew into a warm affection.

He was a man of large scholarship; no bigoted fanatic, but a gentle and genial soul borne up perpetually by an invincible faith in the ultimate triumph of the cause for which he had already sacrificed so much, and for which, if need be, he was ready to sacrifice his all.

In little fragments I had from time to time told him my story. I finished it one night as we sat together outside our cave on the narrow ledge above the pool. There may have been some anger in my voice, or some bitterness in my words, for when my tale was ended he was silent for a time. Then he laid one of his hands upon my knee and with the other pointed to the stream as it poured through the gorge into the quietness of the pool.

"See," he said, "the water in turmoil catches no reflection of the sky, whereas the stars are mirrored every one on the quiet face of the pool. So it is with human hearts. Where bitterness and turmoil are there can be no reflection of the heart of God. It's the quiet heart which catches the light."