Wilson's Tales of the Borders and of Scotland, Volume 16
General
Wilson's Tales of the Borders and of Scotland, Volume 16
Scottish Borders (Scotland) -- Fiction
I was now seated at a long table, at which were some of the most
forbidding individuals I had ever seen: several were evidently
intoxicated, spoke in phrases I could not comprehend, and uttered oaths
that made my heart tremble. I became bewildered; the situation in which
I had placed myself was not what I had anticipated. I loathed the liquor
they offered me, began to think I had done a foolish action, and wished
to be at my bench again, a free agent.
How long my mind continued in this state I know not; but I was soon
roused to a fuller sense of the situation in which I had so rashly
placed myself. I soon saw enough to make me weep. Six of the gang
entered, swearing, and threatening two young sailors, whom they dragged
in with them, and who, as well as several of their captors, were
severely cut, bruised, and bleeding. They had, doubtless, fought stoutly
to escape the gang. I was there a voluntary victim, and any little
fortitude that had until now sustained me fled, as I gazed upon the
painful sight. They were both about the same age, and stout, active
young men; they spoke not one word; but their countenances were sad,
gloomy, and desponding; and, at times, I could perceive a shade of
sullenness, bordering on ferocity, pass over their faces, as they lifted
their eyes from the floor towards the men who were busy removing the
stains of the conflict. In a short time after, we were taken to the
Ferry Stairs, and put into their boat. It was now, for the first time,
that I began to doubt if my father was correct in his eulogiums of
British liberty. I soon understood that the cases of these lads were
peculiarly hard; yet, after all, not so very hard as that of many I
afterwards knew. They were brothers, and belonged to Leith, where their
parents still lived. They had been absent three years upon a whaling
expedition in the South Seas; and, anxious to see their father and
mother (the former of whom was stretched on a sick-bed), had, with
circumspection, and in disguise, reached their home, when, only after a
few hours, some unfeeling wretch, for the paltry reward, became
informer, and the gang secured their prey. The sick, if not dying,
parent entreated in vain; and the mother's tears and groans, as she saw
her loved and manly sons struggling against an overwhelming force (for
what, my father oft had said, was the birthright of every British
subject), were equally unavailing. I kept my eyes on the two youths who,
for no offence, were thus treated as felons, and compelled, against
their wills and interests, to leave their homes, and all that they held
dear; yet, so strangely are we constituted, this train of thought passed
off, as I surveyed the clear night, with the full moon shining in a
cloudless sky, and reflected by the waters of the placid Frith. My young
heart even felt a glow of pleasure: I hoped the worst of my new life was
past, and that I would soon be again with my father, to recount to him
the sights I had seen.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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