house or the drudgery within it. At twenty-seven she was already an old woman.
But in many important respects Agnes Gibson was a more remarkable individual than her husband. She was possessed of an unusual intelligence: she could reason within her limits profoundly and wisely. She had developed an infinite resourcefulness. From her own mother, who was reputed to be almost a witch, she had acquired a vast knowledge of the power of herbs in relation to their healing and medicinal properties. She had a medicine shelf on the wall where she stored her herbs. Tom Gibson feared and respected this activity of hers: it represented something outside his immediate knowledge – if not outside his experience. Doctors were expensive: they were difficult to get. The nearest was Doctor Slaney, at Drummore, four miles away. He knew that there had always been women skilled and knowledgeable in the use of the leaves and roots with which the Lord had, in His infinite wisdom, so bountifully supplied the earth.
This skill and knowledge, allied to her abilities as a midwife, made Agnes Gibson as famous as her husband. In this aspect of her life, which was closed to him, he did not seek to interfere. But secretly he was proud of her distinctive ability.
Agnes Gibson’s knowledge of herbalism and obstetrics was tainted and impregnated with elements of superstition and dæmonology. She had her rites and her incantations. There were ingredients to her medicines – such as the powdered remains of a roasted field mouse – that had no demonstrable therapeutic value.
But she did not practise herbalism for any recreative enjoyment or mercenary ambition. She was no stranger herself to pain and illness: she lived her life amongst pain and illness – especially ailments more peculiar to women and children.
She was a natural healer: all her deeper instincts impelled her towards the alleviation of pain and suffering. There were many women who would rather have had Agnes Gibson attend them in childbed than all the King’s physicians.
Of light-hearted laughter, of abandoned joy, there was little in the life of Tom and Agnes Gibson. Life was a hard, grim and never-ending struggle. But there was, strangely enough, contentment. It was a contentment that arose from a blend of stoicism, ignorance and calvinistic fatalism. But in many ways it was deep and abiding. There were nights in the cot-house when the children were bedded, they enjoyed a quiet moment by the fire. The grieve smoking quietly and not without some show of dignity and Agnes plying her needles on the endless hanks of grey wool.
But even this relaxation was snatched from the hours of sleep. The night was short and barely dragged beyond eight o’clock in winter. There was work and plenty for every day-lit hour of the summer’s day. And the day commenced around the morning hour of four.
All suffering and misery was buried deep beneath the overwhelming necessity to meet the daily and urgent struggle to live.
WHAT CAN LITTLE HANDS DO?
Andrew Ramsay had eight sons and four daughters. The eldest sons, Adam and Samuel, fished on Loch Ryan. Richard was sailing before the mast. Alexander was working a pair of horse with John MacMeechan of Achgammie. Bell was in service in Stranraer to Doctor Gebbie. Mary was cook to Achgammie. Sarah, at fourteen, was serving at the farm of Gowanlea near Portpatrick. John, aged twelve, was helping in the Achgammie byres. William, aged ten, was labouring in the Achgammie fields. Agnes, aged eight, was helping her mother. Peter, at six, did seasonal work in the fields. David, the youngest, at four— But what could a child of four do – even for the king of heaven?
This morning, as every morning, there was the breakfast to get ready: porridge. There were eight helpings of porridge to be on the table before five o’clock. And as Peter was ill with a bad cold there was nothing for it but that David would have to stir the porridge while Agnes greased the boots, set the table and engaged herself in odds and ends of early morning household tasks. Mrs. Ramsay never got up in the mornings now. The change of life was upon her and though she was thus relieved of further procreative labour she was exhausted and wearied to the point of death. And her husband never stirred from her side until the porridge was on the table and cool enough to be supped.
It fell to Agnes to wake the household. Had she slept in, the calling of her mother would have wakened her. But Agnes always wakened with a start about four o’clock. Always she was certain she had overslept and so bounded out into the middle of the floor.
The child had a pinched fear-drawn face. The terms of her duties and obligations, only part of the obligations she must pay back to her parents for the gift of life, had been carefully instilled into her from the moment she had ears to hear and sufficient comprehension to understand what was being said to her. She must work from the moment she opened her eyes in the morning till she closed them at night.
At eight years of age Agnes did not even question far less harbour any thoughts of rebellion against her lot. She might sleep in: the household might sleep in. The extent of such a possible disaster was beyond her imagination. But the possibility haunted her even in her sleeping hours so that she always awoke at the same hour and with the same nervous start.
But even when she was up, there was a lot might go wrong. It was not sufficient to be up. The porridge had to be made: her brothers wakened in time to dress and eat and be out of the house in time for Achgammie – for John MacMeechan was as hard and relentless a taskmaster as any to be found in the parish of Kirkcolm.
Barefooted and in her coarse shift, Agnes ran to the fireplace and saw with relief that there was still a red glow beneath the white ashes of the peats.
Pulling up her shift, for she had been carefully trained, the child knelt down and applied the bellows to the peats. She did not stop till tongues of bright flame leapt from the fresh peats.
Then she lifted the heavy cast iron porridge pot in which the oatmeal had been steeping from the previous night and hung it on the biggest hook on the chain. The effort took all her strength: her thin arms as they strained upwards seemed pathetically unfitted for the task and her calf muscles as she pressed upwards on her toes were gathered in a puny knot. She looked the more helpless and pathetic in the flickering light from the fire. Outside in the daylight she appeared wiry and strong – but with an aged look about her eyes that belied the innocence of her years and shewed clearly how much they lacked of tenderness.
Only when Agnes had the pot on the hook and was certain that the fire would burn could she snatch a moment to pull on her clothes. This did not detain her long. First a grey flannel petticoat with the edges scalloped in red wool; then over this her rough dress that had been handed down from Sarah; then a hessian apron of her mother’s that tied just under her armpits and above the faint outline of her breasts. She had a pair of boots and a pair of stockings – but they were only for church or for some rare occasion. As she ran about the house her bare toes slapped coldly the beaten earthen floor.
The moment she was dressed she ran to the door, slipped back the wooden bar noiselessly and ran round to the back of the house.
It was a cold November morning: the wind blew in from Loch Ryan, cold and salt-tanged. There had been much rain through the night but for the moment it was dry. She did not stay a moment longer than was necessary. But she looked across in the direction of the Achgammie cot-houses and was reassured to find that there were no lights shewing. She had not slept in.
Back she went to the fire and blew the peats to greater life with the bellows.
She was sorry for David. She went over to the bed. He had snuggled into the place she had vacated and was sleeping deeply and peacefully. She did not like to waken him. But there was Peter flushed and restless with a high temperature on him. There was the strict injunction of her mother not to waken him but to get David to stir the porridge. John or William lying
