A Place Called Freedom (1995)

Mack’s mother had once been a ladies’ maid at High Glen House, the Hallim mansion, and after she married she had sometimes gone back, on a Sunday afternoon, to see her old friends and show off her twin babies. Mack and Esther had played with Lizzie on those visits—probably without the knowledge of Lady Hallim. Lizzie had been a little minx: bossy, selfish and spoiled. Mack had kissed her once, and she had pulled his hair and made him cry. She looked as though she had not changed much. She had a small impish face, curly dark hair and very dark eyes that suggested mischief. Her mouth was like a pink bow. Staring at her, Mack thought I’d like to kiss her now. Just as the notion crossed his mind she caught his eye. He looked away, embarrassed, as if she might have read his mind.

The sermon came to an end. In addition to the usual Presbyterian service there was to be a christening today: Mack’s cousin Jen had given birth to her fourth child. Her eldest, Wullie, was already working down the pit. Mack had decided that the most appropriate time for his announcement was during the christening. As the moment drew near he felt a watery sensation in his stomach. Then he told himself not to be foolish: he risked his life every day down a mine—why should he be nervous about defying a fat merchant?

Jen stood at the font, looking weary. She was only thirty but she had borne four children and worked down the pit for twenty-three years and she was worn out. Mr. York sprinkled water on her baby’s head. Then her husband, Saul, repeated the form of words that made a slave of every Scottish miner’s son. “I pledge this child to work in Sir George Jamisson’s mines, boy and man, for as long as he is able, or until he die.”

This was the moment Mack had decided on.

He stood up.

At this point in the ceremony the viewer, Harry Ratchett, would normally step up to the font and hand over to Saul the “arles,” the traditional payment for pledging the child, a purse of ten pounds. However, to Mack’s surprise, Sir George rose to perform this ritual personally.

As he stood up, he caught Mack’s eye.

For a moment the two men stood staring at one another.

Then Sir George began to walk to the font.

Mack stepped into the central aisle of the little church and said loudly: “The payment of arles is meaningless.”

Sir George froze in midstep and all heads turned to look at Mack. There was a moment of shocked silence. Mack could hear his own heartbeat.

“This ceremony has no force,” Mack declared. “The boy may not be pledged to the mine. A child cannot be enslaved.”

Sir George said: “Sit down, you young fool, and shut your mouth.”

The patronizing dismissal angered Mack so much that all his doubts vanished. “You sit down,” he said recklessly, and the congregation gasped at his insolence. He pointed a finger at Mr. York. “You spoke about truth in your sermon, Pastor—will you stand up for truth now?”

The clergyman looked at Mack with a worried air. “What is this all about, McAsh?”

“Slavery!”

“Now, you know the law of Scotland,” York said in a reasonable tone. “Coal miners are the property of the mine owner. As soon as a man has worked a year and a day, he loses his freedom.”

“Aye,” Mack said. “It’s wicked, but it’s the law. I’m saying the law does not enslave children, and I can prove it.”

Saul spoke up. “We need the money, Mack!” he protested.

“Take the money,” Mack said. “Your boy will work for Sir George until he’s twenty-one, and that’s worth ten pounds. But—” He raised his voice. “But when he’s of age, he will be free!”

“I advise you to hold your tongue,” Sir George said threateningly. “This is dangerous talk.”

“It’s true, though,” Mack said stubbornly.

Sir George flushed purple: he was not used to being defied so persistently. “I will deal with you when the service is over,” he said angrily. He handed the purse to Saul then turned to the pastor. “Carry on, please, Mr. York.”

Mack was flummoxed. Surely they would not simply go on as if nothing had happened?

The pastor said: “Let us sing the final hymn.”

Sir George returned to his seat. Mack remained standing, unable to believe it was all over.

The pastor said: “The Second Psalm: ‘Why do the heathen rage, and the people imagine a vain thing?’ ”

A voice behind Mack said: “No, no—not yet.”

He looked around. It was Jimmy Lee, the young miner with the wonderful singing voice. He had run away once already, and as a punishment he wore around his neck an iron collar stamped with the words This man is the property of Sir George Jamisson of Fife. Thank God for Jimmy, Mack thought.

“You can’t stop now,” Jimmy said. “I’m twenty-one next week. If I’m going to be free, I want to know about it.”

Ma Lee, Jimmy’s mother, said: “So do we all.” She was a tough old woman with no teeth, much respected in the village, and her opinion was influential. Several other men and women voiced agreement.