A YOUNG REBEL
About two years after these events little Robert Sinclair went to
school. It was a fine morning in late spring, and Robert trudged the
seemingly long road, clasping an elder brother's hand, for the school
lay about a mile to the north-west of the village, and that seemed to
the boy a very long way.
It was a great experience. Robert's clothes had been well patched, his
face had been washed and toweled till it shone, his eyes sparkled with
excitement, and his heart beat high; yet he was nervous and awed,
wondering what he would find there.
"By crikey," said wee Alec Johnstone to him, "wait till auld Clapper
gie's ye a biff or twa wi' his muckle tawse. Do ye ken what he does to
mak' them nippy? He burns them a wee bit in the fire, an' then st'eeps
them in whusky. An' they're awful sair."
"Oh, but I ken what to do, Rab, if ye want to diddle him," put in
another boy. "Just get a horse's hair--a lang yin oot o' its tail--and
put it across yer haun', an' it'll cut his tawse in twa, whenever he
gie's ye a pammy."
"That's what I'm gaun to do, Jamie," replied another. "I'll get some
hairs frae Willie Rogerson. He's gettin' me some frae his father's when
he's in the stable the morn, an' ye'll see auld Cabbage-heid's tawse
gaun in twa, whenever he gie's me yin." And they all looked admiringly
at this little hero who was going to do this wonderful thing so simply.
"I got four yesterday," said another, "an' I wasna' doin' onything. By
criffens! it was sair, an' gin I had only had a horse's hair, I'd soon
ha'e putten his tawse oot the road."
"I got four yesterday too," said another, "an' a' because I was looking
at yon new laddie wha cam to the schule yesterday. By! they were sair. I
never heard auld Cabbage-heid till he cam up an' telt me to put oot my
haun."
"It's Peter Rundell's his name," chimed in another. "He's the Boss's
laddie. My! if you just saw what fine claes he has on. A new suit, an'
lang stockings, an' a pair o' fine new buits."
"Ay, an' a white collar too," said another, "an' hundreds o' pooches in
his jacket."
"He has a waistcoat wi' three pooches in it--yin for a watch--an' a
braw, black, shiny bonnet."
"He had a white hankey too, an' sweeties in yin o' his pooches."
Robert felt a certain amount of resentment as he listened to the
description, and he grudged Peter Rundell his new suit for he himself
had never known anything of that kind, but had always worn "make-downs"
created by his mother's clever fingers out of the discarded clothes of
grown-ups.
"Auld Cabbage-heid didna' like me looking at Peter Rundell an' that's
the way he gied me four, but I'll get a horse's hair too, an' his tawse
'll soon get wheegh. He's awful cruel, Rab," he said, turning to Robert,
"an' ye'd better look oot."
Each and all had some fearful story to tell of the cruelty of the
headmaster, and all swore they'd get even with him. These stories filled
Robert with a certain fear, for he was an imaginative and sensitive boy.
Still he knew there was no escape. He must go to school and go through
with it whatever the future might hold for him.
So far he had grown wild and free, and loved the broad wide moor which
began even at the end of the row where he lived. It seemed to him that
there never had been a time when he did not know that there was a moor
there. Nothing in it surprised him, even as a child. Its varied moods
were already understood by him, and its silences and its many voices
appealed to and were balm to his soul. The great blue hills which
fringed it away in the far distance were for him the ends of the world,
and if he could go there some day, he would surely look over and
find--what? The thought staggered him, and his imagination would not, or
could not, construct for him what was at the other side. All day, often,
he had lain stretched full length upon the moor, watching the great
white clouds sailing past, seeing himself sometimes sitting astride
them, proudly surveying, like God, the whole world. At times it was so
real that he bounded to his feet when by some misadventure he slipped
from the back of the cloud. He listened to the songs of larks, the cries
of curlews and lapwings and all the other moorland birds, and became as
familiar with each of them as they were with one another.
But this going to school was a break in his freedom, and it stirred him
strangely. He felt already that he would rather not go to school. He had
always been happy before, and he did not know what lay ahead.
In the schoolroom that morning, Robert was called out by the
headmistress to her desk, and while she was jotting down in her register
particulars as to his age, etc., it happened that Peter Rundell was also
on the floor. Robert looked so wonderingly at the white collar and the
shining boots, that Rundell, to fill in the blanks and keep himself
cheerful, promptly put out his tongue. Robert, not to be behind in
respectfulness, just as promptly put out his, at the same time making a
grimace, and immediately they were at it, pummeling each other in hearty
glee before the teacher could do anything to prevent them. It was their
first fight. The whole class was in immediate uproar and cries of--"Go
on, Rob!" and "Good Peter!" were ringing out, as the supporters on
either side shouted encouragement. Both went at it and for a couple of
minutes defied the efforts of the teacher to separate them; but in
response to calls for help, Mr. Clapper, the headmaster, came in, and
taking hold of Robert soon had him across his knee, and was giving him a
taste of the "tawse" he had heard so much about that morning, and Robert
went back to his seat very sore, both physically and mentally, and
crying in pain and anger. Thus his first day began at school, and the
succeeding months were full of many such incidents.
Life ran along in the ordinary ruts for three or four years, but always
Peter and Robert were antagonists. If Rundell happened to get to the top
of the class, Robert never rested till he had excelled and displaced
him; and then it was Peter's turn to do likewise till he too succeeded.
Robert, when in the mood, was eager and brilliant, and nothing seemed
able to stay him. At times, however, he was given to dreaming, and lived
through whole days in the classroom quite unconscious of what was going
on around him. He worked mechanically, living in a strange world of his
own creation, usually waking up to find himself at the foot of the class
with Peter smiling at the top.
Often he went hungry, for times were still hard, and the family had
increased to six. It was a bitter struggle in which Mrs. Sinclair was
engaged to try and feed--let alone clothe--her hungry children. Patient,
plodding, and terrible self-sacrifices alone enabled her to accomplish
what she did. It was always a question of getting sufficient food rather
than aiming at any particular kind. It was quantity rather than quality
that was her biggest problem, for the children had sharp appetites and
could make a feast of the simplest material. A pot of potatoes, boiled
with their "jackets" on, tumbled on to the center of the bare, uncovered
table and a little salt placed in small heaps at the exact position
where each person sat, a large bowl of butter-milk when it could be got,
with a tablespoon for each with which to lift a spoonful of the milk,
and thus was set the banquet of the miner's family.
"Mither, Rob's taken twa sups of milk to yae bite o' tattie," little
Mary would say.
"Ay, an' what did you do?" Robert would reply. "When you thought naebody
was lookin', you took three spoonfu' to yae wee tattie. I was watchin'
you."
"Now that'll do," the mother would admonish them. "Try and make it gang
as far as ye can. Here you!" she would raise her voice to another,
"dinna be so greedy on it. The rest maun get some too." At this the
guilty child would frown and look ashamed at being caught taking more
than his share.
Robert's dreams, however, were always satisfying, and even the sordid
surroundings of the home were gilded by the warmth and glow of his
imagination. Some day, somewhere he seemed to feel, there was a place
for him to fill in the hearts of men. Vague stirrings told him of great
future events which no one could dominate, save the soul that filled his
body.
One day, during the dinner hour, when the school children were all at
play, Robert and Peter again came into conflict. Some girls were playing
at a ring game, and Robert and a few other boys were shamefacedly
looking on. He was by this time at the bashful age of ten, and already
the sweet, shy face of Mysie Maitland had become familiar in every
dream. Mysie's modesty and grace appealed to him and the strange
magnetic power of soul for soul was continually drawing them together,
even at this early age. No voice was like Mysie's voice, no name like
her name to him. If only she chanced shyly to ask if he had a spare
piece of pencil Robert was happy; he'd gladly give her his only piece
and forthwith proceed to borrow another for himself. He saw that Mysie
did certain things, used, for instance, to clean her slate with a bit of
rag, and he instantly procured one, and this kept his jacket sleeve
clean and whole.
"Choose, choose wha' ye'll tak',
Wha' ye'll tak', wha' ye'll tak',
Choose, choose wha' ye'll tak',
A laddie or a lassie."
So sang the girls, as with hands joined they walked round in a ring,
with Mysie, blushing and sweet, standing in the center--a sweet, shy,
little rosebud--a joy in a cheap cotton frock.
"Come on, Mysie," urged the girls, who had now come to a standstill with
the finish of the song. "Choose an' dinna keep us waiting." But Mysie
stood still, her little heart beating at a terrible rate, her breath
coming in short, quick gasps, and a soft, glowing light of nervous
intensity in her eyes.
"Oh, come on, Mysie Maitland," cried one girl in hurt tones, "choose an'
dinna spoil the game."
"Come on," urged another, "the whistle will be blawn the noo."
"She's feart," said one, "an' she disna need, for we a' ken that she
wants to choose Bob Sinclair."
Something sang uproariously in Bob's ears at this blunt way of stating
what they all felt; a hot wave surged over him, and his whole being
seemed to fill with the energy of a giant. He shifted uneasily, his
senses all acutely alert to pick up even Mysie's faint gasp of shame, as
the hot blood suffused her face. Would she choose him before all these
others? He hoped she wouldn't, and he tried to summon a smile to hide
his uneasiness. Still Mysie hesitated. She wanted to choose Robert, but
if she did, perhaps the other boys and girls would tease them
afterwards.
"Oh, come on, Mysie. It's no' fair," cried one of the girls, getting
more and more impatient. "Choose an' be done wi' it. It's only a game."
Thus urged Mysie stepped forward, and, excited out of all judgment, her
face covered with shame, her heart thumping and galloping, she grabbed
the first hand she saw, which happened to be Peter Rundell's, and
something seemed to darken the day for all. Robert, now that he had not
been chosen, felt murder in his heart. His body felt charged with
energy, a flood of passion poured over him and he lost all discretion.
He saw only Peter's shining collar, his fine boots and good clothes, and
above all the smile, half of shame, half of triumph, upon his face. In
passing Peter staggered against Robert, who let drive with his fist, and
there was a fight before anyone really knew what had happened.
"What are ye shovin' at? Can ye no' watch folk's toes?" And he was on
Peter like a whirlwind. There was the hatred of years between them, and
they pummeled each other heartily.
"A fight, boys!" yelled the others. "Here's a fight!" and a crowd
rapidly gathered to watch operations, while little Mysie, who had been
the cause of it all, shrank back into a quiet corner, the tears running
from her eyes and a sore pain at her heart.
"Go on, Bob! Gi'e him a jelly yin," cried Bob's supporters.
"Watch for his nose, Peter," cried those who pinned their faith to the
coal-owner's son. Amid a chorus of such encouragement, both boys
belabored each other and fought like barbarians.
"Let up, Peter," cried Bob's admirers, "an' gi'e him fair doo," as the
two rolled upon the ground, with Peter, who was much the bigger boy, on
top. "Come on now, he let you up when you was doon," and so they kept
the balance of fair play. But the fight raged on in a terrible fury of
battle, sometimes one boy on top, sometimes the other. Bob was the more
active of the two, and hardier, and what he lacked in weight he made up
in speed. One of Peter's eyes was bruised, while Robert's lip was
swelling, and each strained to plant the decisive blow that would end
the fight.
"Nae kickin', Peter! Ye're bate," yelled one watchful supporter of Bob,
as he noticed the former's booted foot come into violent contact with
Bobbie's bare leg.
"Big cowardie!" cried another, as Peter, crying now with rage and
vexation, hit out with his foot. "Fight fair an' nae kickin'!"
Bob managed to dodge the kick, and flinging himself in before Peter
recovered his balance, planted a heavy blow upon his opponent's nose.
"Ho! a jelly yin! a jelly yin!" roared the crowd in admiration. "Gi'e
him anither yin," and even Peter's supporters began to desert him. Bob,
thus encouraged, laid about him with all the strengthened "morale" of a
conscious victor, finding it comparatively easy now to hit hard--and
often. Peter, blinded by tears and choking with passion, could not see,
but struck aimlessly, till one resounding smack upon his already injured
nose brought the eagerly looked for crimson blood from it, and that of
course, in schoolboy etiquette, meant the end of the fight. Peter was
now lying upon the ground, his handkerchief at his nose, and roaring
like a bull, not so much because of his injured nose, as because of the
hurt to his pride and vanity.
"Haud back yer held," advised one boy, "an' put something cauld doon
yer back."
Suddenly there was silence, and everyone looked awed and shamefaced as
Mr. Clapper, the headmaster, strode into the midst of them. He had heard
the noise of the fight, and had stolen up unobserved just in time to see
Peter get the knockout blow.
"What is the meaning of this?" he demanded sternly, his eyes traveling
all over the children, till they rested finally on Robert. No one
answered, and so he proceeded to question Peter, who had struggled to
his feet. Peter, like many other boys in similar circumstances, poured
forth a great indictment of his adversary, and Mr. Clapper then turned
to Robert.
"What have you to say, Sinclair?" he asked. "Speak out, and give me your
side."
But Robert said nothing. His rebellious spirit was roused, and he
resented the tone of the headmaster's voice. Again Mr. Clapper tried,
but Robert remained silent.
"Come now, tell me what led to the fight? Why were you fighting with
Peter?"
Robert would not speak, and Mr. Clapper, being of an explosive
temperament, with little tact, was fast losing his temper. He turned to
question some of the other boys, finally calling them all into the
school, and putting Robert into the teacher's room, so that he might
"get to the bottom of it."
Mr. Clapper, whatever good points he may have possessed, was not at all
fitted for the teaching profession, for he lacked the sympathy necessary
in dealing with children, and he was a rigid believer in the doctrine of
punishment.
After a time he came into the room where Robert sat, and began once more
to question him. But Robert was still obdurate, and stolidly kept
silent. Mr. Clapper recognized at once that this was a clear case of a
dour nature in the wrong. It needed correction, and that of a severe
kind. That spirit he felt must be broken, or there would be trouble
ahead in after years for Robert Sinclair. Mr. Clapper was determined to
do his duty, and he believed that Robert in later life would probably
feel grateful for this thrashing. He thrashed the boy soundly and
severely upon the most sensitive parts of his body, so that the pain
would help to break his spirit. He saw no indignity heaped upon a
high-spirited, sensitive soul. It was all for the boy's own good, and so
the blows fell thick and heavy upon the little back and hips.
Robert bit his lip to repress the roar of pain that wanted to escape. He
would not cry, and this was another spur to the efforts of Mr. Clapper.
The boy's flesh twitched and quivered at every blow, yet never a cry
came from him. It but served to feed his rebellion, and he struggled and
fought with fury until completely exhausted.
"There now," declared Mr. Clapper, flinging down the "tawse" upon the
table, panting from his exertions and wiping his brow, "I shall leave
you for a time until you decide to speak. If you will not speak when I
return, I shall thrash you again," and he went out, locking the door,
leaving the boy, still proud and unsubdued, but aching in every muscle
and bone of his little body.
Left to himself, Robert very nearly cried, but he dashed the gathering
tears from his eyes, angry at the weakness, and resolved, as he adjusted
his garments, that he would die rather than speak now. He looked round,
and seeing the window raised a little from the bottom, sprang to it, a
sudden resolve in his heart to run away. Just as he got astride the sill
he spied a piece of chalk and the "tawse" on the table, so turning back
he put the "tawse" in his pocket, and with the chalk wrote on the
table:--
"You are an ould pig and I'll not speak, and you'll never put your hands
on your tawse again."
Then he was out of the window, dropped easily to the ground, and was
away to the moors. He ran a long way, until finding that he had not been
detected, he skirted a small wood, dug a hole in the soft moss, put in
the "tawse," and covered them up. There they may be lying to this day,
for no one ever learned from him where they were buried.
The spell of the moor took possession of him, and his wounded soul was
soon wrapped in the soft folds of its silence. The balm of its peace
comforted him, and brought ease and calmed the rebellion in his blood.
He was happy, forgetting that there ever had existed a schoolmaster, or
anything else unpleasant. Here he was free, and no one ever
misunderstood him. He gave pain to no one, and nothing ever hurt him
here.
He flung himself down among the rank gray grass and heather, while the
moor cock called to his mate in an agony of pleading passion, the
lapwing crooned upon a tuft of grass as she prepared a place for her
eggs, the whaup wheepled and twirled and cried in eerie alarm, the
plover sighed to a low white cloud wandering past; while the snipe and
the lark, the "mossie," the heather lintie, and the wandering, sighing
winds among the reeds and rushes of the swampy moss, all added their
notes to soothe and satisfy the little wounded spirit lying there on the
soft moorland. Already he was away upon the wings of fancy in a world of
his own--a world full of dreams and joys unspeakable; a world of calm
comfort, where there was no pain, no hunger, no unpleasantness; a world
of smiles and warm delights and love.
Thus he dreamed as he watched the white clouds trailing their draperies
along the sky, till the shadows creeping over the hills, and the cries
of the heron returning to his haunts in the moor, woke him to a
realization of the fact that the school was long since out, and probably
another thrashing awaited him when he got home. Sadly and regretfully he
dragged his little aching body from its soft mossy bed, felt that his
limbs were still sore, and that he was very, very hungry. Rebellion
again surging within him as he remembered all, he trudged home, fearful
yet proud, resolved to go through with the inevitable.