The Scottish Thistle
by
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The night was cool and wet with mists, and the stench of the dead was a pall on the night. John led the mare by the bridle and listened to the dry rub of the axle. An old crone carded the stars from the night and damped the cotter's smoking peats. Radial distaffs winding undulating leagues, spun out the skein of life. The cock crew at first sight, and vapid fingers picked away the shreds of night. The crofter's dog with couched head on forepaws picked up his ears. The wagon crept at funeral pace to the brow of the hill, and the sun cast a long shadow on the West. All that day the man walked, stopping only when the pitching wagon wakened the incumbent form. Rude farmers appraised the spectral wagon and its grim caretaker, and timid housewives brought their children in of doors. A kindly maid fetched milk and bade the fevered man sup, and she put cool linen on his head. The tinker rasped a, "Thank ye," and his eyes were deep and filled with love of simple grace. The maid curtsied to the mud daubed warrior and held the fallen with a heartfelt look. Edinburgh's spires impaled the western sun before the tinker' stopped at Mary's Kirk.
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About the Book
The Scottish Thistle
The principle protagonist is a man who bears the Scottish Thistle for the guilt of the minister’s daughter. He bears the brand on his forehead for alleged neglect of not closing the cattle gate. As a result, a prized cow strays from the enclosure, is lamed, and must be put down. The man is guiltless but accepts the sentence. To do less would shift the blame to the minister’s daughter, who is mother to little Elizabeth. The latter is the glue that binds the family.
Our protagonist has been banished to the Carolinas and returns under penalty of death by hanging. He hides the scar, and it is only revealed to the child. She is true to her pledge and tells no one. He hides his disfigurement under a heavy thatch of hair.
Despite his low station as a thinker, he gains renown for valor and service and must quit Fordyce.
I had access to original documents in the National Library of Scotland, the Church of Scotland Archives, a personal collection of the regimental chaplain of the Seaforth Highlanders, and an interview with the wife of the factor of Cullen House. In addition, I stayed with crofters and tradesmen who entertained me with stories.
About the Author
I was born among the ancients with my face set to the past and dragged into the future. My first grade teacher said I was slow, and she was right. I was not only slow, I was going the wrong way. Mother was my mentor and Grandma Schmidt my inspiration. I never knew Grandpa Schmidt, but the distaff lent him an elegance. There is little to support the pretensions of a small boy and his struggles to grow up, especially one who laid no claim to special gifts and had little promise for advancement. What I lay at the reader’s door is about those who helped shape my world. Our family in the alley house was not destitute. We just made do. I was patched, but a stranger to hunger. There was a warm hearth, cooking smells, hand quilted blankets, and a tune from the old up-right piano. Best of all were the stories, soft summer nights, laughter, and hugs. This was my bounty and my stone.