In a recent article on Curling we endeavoured to give a sketch of the
history of this popular Scottish pastime, together with a brief outline
of the mode in which the game is usually played. The following story
of a match between two rival parishes, supposed to have been played
about the beginning of the present century, may give the reader a
further idea of the enthusiasm evoked on the ice whenever and wherever
curlers forgather. Let the non-initiated imagine himself standing
beside a frozen sheet of water, upon which are assembled a company of
men of various ranks from peer to peasant, each striving to do his
best to support the prowess and honour of his rink. The rink let it be
understood is a certain portion of ice, from thirty to forty yards in
length, apportioned off to the players. The players consist usually of
four on each side, and whereas in the well-known game of grass-bowls,
each player is provided with two wooden bowls which he drives towards
a small white ball called the Jack, each player on the ice has two
curling-stones shaped much like a Gouda cheese—with a handle atop—which
he propels or hurls towards a certain marked spot at each end of the
rink, called the tee; and round each tee is scratched a series of
concentric rings ranging from two to ten or twelve feet in diameter.
Standing at one end of the rink the man whose turn it is to play, waits
the bidding of his director or ‘skip’ who stands at the other end, and
then endeavours to act according to the directions that may be given by
that important personage. Each of the four players on one side plays
alternately against his antagonist, the main object being to send the
stone gliding up the ice so that it may eventually lie within the rings
and as near the tee as possible. Thus, when the ‘end’ is finished, the
side whose stones lie nearest the tee scores so many towards the game.
Sometimes when the ice is partially thawed the players have difficulty
in hurling their stones all the way to the tee; and sometimes they fail
to get them beyond a transverse mark called the ‘hog-score,’ two-thirds
down the rink—in which case the lagging stone is put off the ice and
cannot count for that ‘end.’ Besoms, however, with which each man is
armed, are here of great account, the laws of the game permitting each
player to sweep the ice in front of an approaching stone belonging to
his side, so as to accelerate its progress, if necessary. The shouts of
‘Sweep, sweep!’ or rather ‘_Soop, soop!_’ are of continual recurrence,
and are exceedingly amusing to strangers. The skip on each side first
directs his three men and then lastly plays himself. On his generalship
in skipping much depends, his efforts being mainly directed first to
get as many stones as possible near the tee, and then to get his men to
‘guard’ them from being driven off by those of the opposite side. Or
he may direct a player to aim at a certain stone already lying, with a
view to take an angle, or ‘wick’ as it is termed, and so land his own
stone near the tee. This wicking is a very pretty part of the game and
requires great delicacy of play.
The anxiety of the opposing skips is very amusing to watch, and the
enthusiasm of the several players when an unusually good shot is made,
is boundless. A good ‘lead’ or first player, though he is necessarily
debarred from the niceties of the game which fall to the lot of the
subsequent players, is a very important man in the game if he can
place his stones within the circles that surround the tee, or in
familiar parlance, ‘lie within the house.’ Second player’s post is
not so important; but ‘third stone’ is a position given usually to
an experienced player, as he has frequently to either drive off some
dangerous stone belonging to the other side, and himself take its
place; or has to guard a stone of his own side, which though in a good
position may lie open to the enemy. Thus proceeds with varying fortune
this ‘roaring game’ of give and take, stone after stone being driven
along the icy plain, till the skips themselves come to play and so
finish the ‘end.’
With these preliminary remarks we proceed to our tale.
* * * * *
Snow had fallen long and silently over all the high-lying districts
of the south of Scotland. It was an unusually bad year for the
sheep-farmers, whose stock was suffering severely from the protracted
storm and the snow which enveloped both hill and low-lying pasturage.
But while sheep-farmers were thus kept anxiously waiting for fresh
weather, curlers were in their glory, as day after day they forgathered
on the ice and followed up the ‘roaring game.’
The century was young, and the particular year of our story was that
known and spoken of for long afterwards as the ‘bad year.’ In these
days, there was no free-trade to keep down the price of corn or beef,
which during years of bad harvest in Great Britain, or long periods of
frost and snow, rose to famine prices, and were all but unprocurable by
the poorer classes. Oatmeal at half-a-crown a peck told a sad tale in
many a household, and especially on the helpless children—the bairns.
As we have said, curling had been enjoyed to the full; perhaps there
had even been a surfeit of it, if the real truth were told. Match
after match had been played by parish against parish, and county
against county. Rival rinks of choice players belonging to counties
such as Peebles had challenged those of the neighbouring counties of
Selkirkshire, or even Midlothian. Prizes, consisting of medals or
money, had been gained by various enthusiasts; and last though not
least, matches for suppers of beef and greens—the true curlers’ fare,
had been contested, the reckoning to be paid by the losing rinks. The
benedicts too had played the bachelors, and had as usual, beaten them.
Country squires had given prizes to be played for by their tenantry
versus adjoining tenantry, and had brought their fur-clad wives and
daughters to the ice to congratulate them on success, or condole with
them on defeat. In short, the sole occupation of the majority of the
adult male rural population of the south of Scotland in the year of
which we speak, seemed to be—curling.
Amongst other matches in the county of Peeblesshire there was one that
yet remained to come off, namely between the parishes of Tweedsmuir
and Broughton. In a series of matches—or bonspiels as they were
termed—between parish and parish, these two had stood unbeaten. It
therefore remained to be seen which parish should beat the other, and
thereby achieve the envied position of champion of the county.
When the honour of a _parish_ is at stake on the ice, the choice
of the men who are to play, is a matter of very grave import. In
a friendly match between two rinks, a little unskilfulness on the
part of one or more of the players is a very common affair and is
comparatively unheeded: but in a bonspiel between the two best parishes
in a celebrated curling county, the failure or even the occasional
uncertainty of any one man may be fraught with direst consequences.
Foremost among the promoters of the forthcoming match which was to
decide matters, were Robert Scott laird of Tweedsmuir, and Andrew
Murray laird of Broughton. These worthies had long been rivals on
other than ice-fields, and though on friendly enough terms at kirk
or market were each keenly alive to his own honour and prowess. Any
game, therefore, in which these rival lairds engaged, was sure to be
closely contested; and the result was at all times as eagerly watched
by interested spectators as it was keenly fought by the rival parties.
It is even said that the lairds had been rivals in love as well as in
other sports, the result of which was that Murray had carried off the
lady and Scott had remained a bachelor, with an old housekeeper named
Betty to take charge of him. But as the story of the love-match was but
the ‘clash’ of the country, it may be taken for what it is worth.
On the morning of the day fixed for the match (which was to come off
at Broughton and to consist of four men on each side), the laird of
Tweedsmuir was early astir, in order to see that the cart which was
to convey his own curling-stones and those of his men to Broughton—a
distance of some half-dozen miles—was ready, and that the men
themselves were prepared to accompany it. The cart having been duly
despatched with the schoolmaster of the parish, who was to be one of
the players, and the shepherd from Talla Linns, who was to be another,
Laird Scott ordered out his gig and himself prepared to start.
‘Now Betty,’ cried the laird to his old housekeeper, as he proceeded to
envelop himself in his plaid, ‘you’ll see and have plenty of beef and
greens ready by six o’clock, and a spare bed or two; for besides our
own men it’s likely enough I may bring back one or two of the beaten
lads to stop all night.’
‘’Deed laird, tak ye care the Broughton folk dinna get the better o’
_you_, and beat ye after a’: they tell me they’re grand curlers.’
‘Well Betty, I’m not afraid of them, with Andrew Denholm on my side.’
Thus assured, the stalwart laird seized the reins and took the road
for Broughton. On his way down the valley of the Tweed he called at
the humble cottage of the said Andrew Denholm, who usually played the
critical part of ‘third stone,’ and was one of his best supporters; and
whose employment, that of a mason, was for the nonce at a stand-still.
‘What! not ready yet Andrew?’ exclaimed the laird in a tone of
disappointment. ‘Bestir yourself man, or we’ll not be on the ice by ten
o’clock.’
‘I’m no’ gaun’ to the curlin’ the day sir,’ replied Andrew with an air
of dejection.
‘And what for no’?’ inquired the laird with uneasy apprehension. ‘You
know Andrew, my man, the game canna’ go on without you. The honour of
Tweedsmuir at stake too! there’s not another man I would risk in your
place on the ice this day.’
‘Get Wattie Laidlaw the weaver to tak’ my place laird; he’s a grand
curler, and can play up a stane as well as ony man in the parish; the
fact is sir, just now I have na’ the heart even to curl. Gang yer ways
yersell laird, and skip against the laird o’ Broughton, and there’s nae
fear o’ the result: and Wattie can play third stane instead o’ me.’
‘Wattie will play _nae_ third stane for me: come yourself Andrew, and
we’ll try to cheer you up; and you’ll take your beef and greens up bye
wi’ the rink callants and me in the afternoon.’
Denholm was considered one of the best curlers in that part of the
county, and was usually one of the first to be on the ice; to see
him, therefore, thus cast down and listless, filled the laird’s warm
heart with sorrow. He saw there was something wrong. He must rally the
dejected mason.
‘Do you think,’ continued the laird, ‘that I would trust Wattie to play
in your place; a poor silly body that can barely get to the hog-score,
let alone the tee? Na, na Andrew; rather let the match be off than be
beaten in that way.’
Seeing the laird thus determined to carry off his ‘third man’ to the
scene of the approaching conflict, the poor mason endeavoured still
further to remonstrate by a recital of his grievances.
‘Ye ken sir,’ he began, ‘what a long storm it has been. Six weeks since
I’ve had a day at my trade, though I have made a shilling or two now
and again up-bye at the homestead yonder. But wi’ the price o’ meal at
half-a-crown the peck, and no’ very good after a’; and nineteenpence
for a loaf of bread, we’ve had a sair time of it. But we wadna’ vex
oorsels about that, Maggie and me, if we had meal eneugh to keep the
bairns fed. Five o’ them dwining away before our eyes; it’s been an
unco job I assure you, laird. Indeed if it hadna been for Mag’s sister
that’s married upon the grieve o’ Drummelzier, dear knows what would
have become of us, wi’ whiles no a handfu’ o’ meal left in the girnel.
Even wi’ the siller to pay for it, it’s no’ aye to be gotten; and,’
faltered the poor fellow in conclusion, ‘there’s just meal eneugh in
the house to-day to last till the morn.’
‘Well, cheer up my man!’ cried the laird; ‘the longest day has an
end, and this storm cannot last much longer. In fact there’s a thaw
coming on or I’m far cheated. There’s a crown to Maggie to replenish
the meal-ark, and get maybe a sup o’ something better for the bairns.
And there’s cheese an’ bread in the gig here that will serve you and
me Andrew, till the beef and greens are ready for us up-bye in the
afternoon. Meanwhile, a tastin’ o’ the flask will no be amiss, and then
for Broughton.’
Thus invigorated and reassured, the mason took his seat beside the
laird, and amid blessings from the gudewife and well-wishings from the
bairns, the two sped on their journey.
Arrived at the pond, they found tees marked, distances measured, and
all in readiness for the play to begin. The usual salutations ensued.
Broughton and Tweedsmuir shook hands all round with much apparent
warmth; and the two sides, of four each, took their places in the
following order: