he had also the art of enjoying life – after his own fashion.
His pleasures were simple: whisky and women. Yet perhaps his keenest pleasures were his love for a mettlesome horse.
At the age of forty, Craigdaroch was the father of ten legitimate and twenty-three illegitimate children. At least he acknowledged to this number: there may have been more: certainly there were more to come.
Although a leading elder in the Auld Kirk, Mr. MacWhirrie was not above feeling proud of the fruitfulness of his fornications. As an elder, he was particularly severe to fornicators and to women who bore illegitimate children to men other than himself. It was seldom that he had children to women who were not in his employment. He owned Craigdaroch farm and was the tenant of High Melton farm. Of his twenty milkmaids – or milkers as the less picturesque term of the day had it – eight were unmarried and averaged three children each to him. An odd one lived with her parents but most of them had cot-houses of their own. He saw that they did not actually starve; for the older of the children provided him with cheap necessary labour. As long as their mothers had enough meal and milk there was no pressing necessity to pay them even the low wages that prevailed. Virtually, when a girl bore children to him, she became his chattel slave.
No one, least of all the parish minister, questioned the morality of Craigdaroch. If he employed women who had illegimate children, what of it? Most farmers did. And as their spiritual welfare was in a leading elder’s hands (as well as their secular welfare) no doubt Mr. MacWhirrie duly catechised them. Strong as the hold and authority of the church was upon the agricultural labourer it was by no means as strong on the wealthy and powerful farmer.
Already in the prime of his life, Craigdaroch was a power in the parish and held the promise of progressing with the years.
With it all, he took life calmly. He found it good. He had no wish to spoil its goodness by unduly worrying about it. Every Friday he went to Drummore market and every Friday he returned home drunk. There were other days and nights in the week he might be drunk. But he was discreet about them. On market days he was royally and publicly drunk as befitted his status. Here again his actions did not in any way conflict with his religious authority. He was a leading and responsible elder. But he was also a farmer of consequence. He did not get drunk as an elder but as a farmer. Every one took care to note the difference – if they were subtle enough to recognise one.
Physically, Ned MacWhirrie was in complete contrast to his grieve. He was a small bandy-legged ferret of a man. His face was sharp and pinched: his eyes grey and shifty. He trimmed his beard to a neat point. He was careful of his appearance and, for a Galloway farmer, was always trim and trig. His brown leggings were always highly polished when he set off on his morning rounds. His step was brisk and lively and his speech incisive, though he could drawl as broad as any when in the humour.
He was more than usually trig and trim as he set out to bargain for his lime. Word had been brought to him late the previous afternoon that the lime boat had been successfully beached in Craigdaroch Bay. The news had been welcome. His practised weather-sense warned him of an imminent storm. With a storm in the offing he would be able to drive a fine bargain. The morning found him in a splendid humour for the task.
He decided to take his grieve with him. The encounter promised possibilities too tempting to be wasted between himself and the ship’s master. Moreover he had to impress his grieve with his own special qualities. There were points concerning farm management of which he considered Tom Gibson unenlightened and inexperienced.
There was a sough of rain in the wind as the farmer and his grieve set off across the fields to the bay. It was a late October morning and the ploughing on the stubble fields was well advanced. But already the fresh green lustre was off the pasture fields and a greyish tinge was creeping in.
‘There’s a bit of draining needing to be done, Tom.’
‘There is, Mr. MacWhirrie, gin we had the back of the barley field broken.’
‘Yes: you’ll see to it then?’
‘You can depend on me, Mr. MacWhirrie.’
Craigdaroch knew well that he could: but it would never do to let his grieve know that.
‘There’s some coping on the dykes there, Tom—’
‘The moment I’ve a man to spare, Mr. MacWhirrie: it’s no’ a job you could lippen to anybody.’
‘Maybe you’d best see to it yourself, Tom?’
‘I was thinking that way.’
‘An hour as you can spare it, Tom: that’s how to get through a job like that.’
Craigdaroch was in grand form, working himself up sally by sally. He never spoke harshly to his grieve. He bullied him by subtle flattery. Well he knew there wasn’t a farmer who wouldn’t give another couple of pounds a year and an extra bag of meal to have Tom Gibson. Craigdaroch sometimes marvelled that his grieve didn’t seem to realise this. But then the only quality that MacWhirrie really admired in a man was cunning. It was by cunning, by the use of the brain, that a man rose above his fellowmen and in the end dominated them. But Craigdaroch would never have tolerated a cunning grieve.
And so they passed over Craigdaroch fields and down to Craigdaroch Bay where the lime boat with its cargo was beached. As they neared the bay they met the master of the ship who, anxious about the weather and the avoidance of unnecessay delay, was himself making for Craigdaroch.
The skipper knew MacWhirrie of old and, though he did not relish the encounter, was most polite and deferential to him. And yet the salutations were barely over when his impatience got the upper hand of him.
‘You’ll be sending your carts down right away, Mr. MacWhirrie?’
Craigdaroch’s eyes twinkled.
‘You’re fully fast, captain.’
‘But the tide, Mr. MacWhirrie—’
‘Time and tide wait for no man, captain.’
‘A true word; but—’
‘We’re no’ needing much in the way of lime the year, Tom?’
The grieve was puzzled.
‘No … We’d need twa-three ton—’
‘Twa-three ton?’
‘Just that, skipper: we’re no’ desperate, you know. It was never my fashion to starve the land hereabouts – it could go a year without much odds.’
‘But your order, Mr MacWhirrie?’
‘What order are you speaking about, skipper?’
‘Mr. Symington said you would be taking a full cargo anyway—’
‘Did he now?’
‘That’s the words, Mr. MacWhirrie. Dammit, man I didn’t beach ninety tons on a mere speculation.’
‘Don’t get the bit atween your teeth, skipper. Craigdaroch’s well kenned as a man of his word. I’m afraid Mr. Symington’s been presuming here. I told him the position when he came round in June. I told him I hadn’t my
