God's Highlander Read Free

by the Church are tramping thousands of miles through the jungles of Africa to bring God to the heathens, Mr Garrett. Are you saying I should abandon my own people because there are a few miles of Highlands between them and my kirk?’
    â€˜I didn’t appoint you as their minister. What you do here is between you and Lord Kilmalie. Just don’t get in my way, that’s all.’
    The factor jerked his horse about. A lad of about ten was hurrying along the bank of the loch, away from the village. John Garrett called out to him: ‘You there … boy. Come here. Help the minister to carry his things to the manse.’
    For a moment the boy hesitated, and it seemed he might refuse. A woman’s voice called from the crowd of retreating villagers and, sulkily, the boy came to where Wyatt stood beside the mounted factor.
    John Garrett scowled down at the boy. ‘If I ever have occasion to call you again, you’ll come running, you understand? What’s your name?’
    â€˜Ewan Munro … sir.’
    The scowl had not completely disappeared when the factor returned his attention to Wyatt.
    â€˜You’re expected at my house for dinner tonight. You’ll find it about three miles along the road, this side of Corpach. My wife and daughter consider it their duty to wring the last drop of information from anyone foolish enough to leave the city for the Highlands. If you’ve another suit in your luggage, I suggest you wear it. That one stinks of the fish Donald McKay carried in his boat on the last trip.’

Two
    W YATT COULD NOT draw a single word from Ewan Munro during the half-mile walk from the jetty to the minister’s manse. It was evident the boy was poor. His ragged clothing, bare feet and skinny limbs bore witness to this, but he refused to be drawn on the subject of his family. Even when asked a direct question the boy would only grunt ambiguously.
    Wyatt’s bag and trunk were deposited unceremoniously on the doorstep of the single-storey whitewashed cottage, and Ewan Munro walked away, still without speaking. His manner was untypical of the respect usually shown by the Scots to their churchmen. Wyatt would have a hard time gaining the respect of these people, but the rules governing the Church of Scotland were clear: a minister had to be approved by the community he was to serve before he could be inducted into their parish.
    He did not doubt they would eventually accept his induction as their new preacher, albeit with some reluctance. Only a very brave or a very foolhardy man would openly defy Lord Kilmalie and refuse to accept the landlord’s nominee. Nevertheless, Wyatt would need the support of his congregation if he was to make a success of his appointment.
    The manse was a comfortable little house, kept neat and tidy. There was food in the cupboard, too, although Wyatt doubted whether such thoughtfulness had emanated from the villagers.
    Wyatt spent a little time exploring the house and then made his way to the church. His ‘kirk’.
    Situated close to the manse, the stone-built church was probably the largest building in Eskaig. As an acknowledgement of its status it possessed a slate roof, the only one in the village. The inside of the
building was whitewash-clean and starkly simple. As he stood in the pulpit and looked around him, Wyatt tried to imagine what it would be like to preach a sermon to a packed church.
    After spending a while enjoying such self-indulgence, Wyatt descended the five wooden steps from the pulpit and for some minutes remained on his knees in front of the altar with its simple wooden cross before going outside to the churchyard. Here in a quiet corner he eventually found what he was looking for. It was a simple stone headstone on which was inscribed: ‘Reverend Donald Jamieson. Died serving his fellow men, 19 September 1836.’
    Looking down at the grave, memories of his childhood flooded back to Wyatt. Childhood days on