a big change. And he’s drinking in a way I’ve seen many a time – drinking in a way that no good comes out of.’
‘Drinking to drown his sorrows?’
‘Aye: or drinking to forget. He’s seen too much for his age, has Richard. There’s none o’ the brute in him and he takes it hard.’
‘He’ll drink himself to death if he goes on the way he’s doing.’ Sam MacKitteroch shook his head sadly and wearily.
‘I’ve seen men drinking like that, Andra – it’s a bad sign. My heart’s wi’ ye, Andra, you ken that fine – he’s your laddie – but I kind of adopted him myself like. I know you’ll no’ misunderstand me. And I fear maist of all, Andra, that the boy’s lost faith in his Maker.’
‘You think so, Sam?’
‘I hope I’m wrong, Andra. I’ll have a quiet word wi’ him before he goes back …’
They were standing at the edge of the road where the path to the Suie led off. The evening was deathly still and the swallows had left the sky which was a drift of dove-grey clouds. Yet already in the east there seemed a faint iridescence and from Achgammie there came surprisingly clear the clarion call of a stirring cock.
Though the cronies had drunk much the liquor had little effect on them. There was a moment or two of silence as they pretended to survey the night. And then Sam said with a deep and touching sincerity:
‘We maun place our trust in our Maker, Andra.’
But Andrew Ramsay was not certain – not in his heart. Life had not turned out as it might. Perhaps the Maker was weary with mankind.
As he stumbled along the path to the Suie he felt he had been old for a long time – that now indeed he was ripening towards the grave. He experienced a chill repugnance of life …
The flesh is like the wind that passeth over the grass and is gone …
Andrew Ramsay’s heart was sick for his son Richard: heavy beyond knowledge and beyond words.
The Captain and his host crouched round the fire. Richard was relieved that his father and Sam MacKitteroch had gone. MacHaffie was relieved too – he had had enough of the older generation. He had to bridle the tongue of his ribaldry too much in their presence. He was sure the Captain had had many an experience with foreign women that would bear retelling and be a thousand times more interesting than Sam MacKitteroch’s ancient drivelling.
But the Captain did not seem keen to relate his sexual experiences or any other personal intimacies with the light-hearted libidinous landlord.
‘To hell, man, Richard, you’re in a dour dirty bitch o’ a mood the nicht – what’s the matter wi’ ye? The whisky no’ to your pleasement?’
‘The whisky’s fine, Bob. But it hasn’t the kick in it it used to have.’
‘Drink it up, man – get it down.’
‘No: it’s not that, Bob. Damn it, man, I drink it all day and half the night: and yet I never get drunk. A year or two ago I could have danced a hornpipe on a half bottle. Now …’
‘It’s a woman ye want.’
‘Maybe it is.’
‘I know it is. Listen! There’s a couple o’ maids sleep in the cheese loft at Cortorfin – what d’ye say if we go over and see what’s doing? If the bloody dogs don’t set up a barking.’
‘No, no … Christ! that’s no’ the kind of women I need – if it is a woman I need. I’ve had my bellyful o’ that nonsense and it’s like the drink – no satisfaction in it.’
‘God, boy, you’re in a bad way.’
‘It’s me that knows that, Bob. Forget it. How’s Lizzie Hunter doing?’
‘Married to a bloody lout o’ a byreman – three bairns – ye wouldna look at her now.’
‘Aye … she was a fine set-up lass when I knew her.’
‘You’d a notion o’ Lizzie?’
‘Well … I don’t know …’
‘I æy thought ye’d a notion o’ Bell MacCready.’
‘How many bairns has she?’
‘Two – and one on the road – or it might be twins. It’s her young sister that’s over at Cortorfin.’
‘Aye … Is there no’ a decent lass left in the Rhinns?’
‘Man, ye’re a thrawn beggar gotten. What’s the harm in a bit o’ fun back and forward like? There’s nobody any the worse and a lot a damn sight the better.’
‘Aye …’
‘Aye! Ye’ve been too long at sea: that’s what’s wrong wi’ ye. Maybe ye’ve had a touch o’ sunstroke or something?’
‘Maybe. I’m sorry, Bob: I’m neither company for man nor beast. I shouldn’t have come back here. What’s my father got out o’ life living in Kirkcolm?’
‘There’s damn a’ wrong wi’ your father. He’s maybe a bit independent: but that’s a good fault.’
‘Independent? Aye: he’s independent. And by God! there’s no’ many like him in that respect. I’m telling you, Bob, Andrew Ramsay is a man in a thousand – only he never had a chance in life.’
‘Right then! But you can’t say that. You’ve done gey well. You got your ship before MacMeechan. You’re the youngest skipper that ever came out o’ the Rhinns to my knowledge.’
‘Aye … and what have I made of my chances, Bob? Damn all. It’s me knows exactly what I’m talking about. Christ! If I could only forget – that’s my trouble. What the hell’s before me – but the sea? I’m sick o’ that life. And what’s for me here? There’s not even a decent lass ye could marry and settle down with: and there’s no decent work to provide a roof for her.’
‘Well, damn it, if ye put it that way there’s something in what ye say. I felt myself I would like to get married: we’re no’ getting any younger – but I havena met the girl I’d like to bring here to be my wife. I don’t suppose I’m the marrying kind, Richard. But still … there’s something in what you say … I see what you’re driving at …’
‘It shouldn’t be hard to see that. And yet again, Bob, what’s the good o’ bringing a litter o’ bairns into this world – unless they can be well provided for? You wouldn’t want to see any of your bairns hash their guts out on Achgammie – and I don’t want to see them have their guts hashed out before the mast. You see: it’s a problem no matter how you look at it.’
‘Aye … it’s a problem all right. But damn it, man, you look too much at the problem. Things have a way o’ working out – they’ve aey had … and we’ve never died a winter yet. No: to hell: you can look at things too seriously, Richard. You’re young: you’ve the world before you. Try giving up the drink for a month or two: you’ll be damned glad to come back to it.’
‘I’ve the world before me? No, no: the world’s behind me. There was a day when the world was before me – and by God I had great expectations o’ it. But that’s all behind me. You know, Bob: when I was a boy like my brother David that’s at the Suie yonder I had a great admiration for grown men. Boy, I thought they must be wise and great and all that kind o’ thing. And I thought that when I grew to be a man the world would be a wonderful place to live in. And I’ll not dispute there’s a great man here and there – Sam MacKitteroch’s one in his way – he taught me more navigation than ever I learned before the mast – and my father’s one in his way – I mean they’re decent and kindly and they’ve got courage – which is more than I have by the way. Oh,