Authors: Gian Bordin
Wednesday morning, Helen sent the boy to the solicitor with another
letter, requesting that he obtain a permit for visiting her husband at seven
o’clock that evening. She told the boy to wait for an answer and check for
any other news, reminding him to make sure that nobody followed him
on his way back. He nodded and simply smiled.
Rose procured a second-hand full peruke, a somewhat battered low-crowned cocked hat, and a castoff, straight, full-length waistcoat that was
still in decent shape. Helen added one of Andrew’s white shirts and a pair
of white stockings. That was what she remembered Andrew had worn.
The arrangement was that they would arrive at the prison around six
thirty. Before seven, Helen and Andrew should be out again, and Owen
would then take them by detours back to the inn. Before dawn, at high
tide, they would board a boat bound for Greenock. Rose would sell both
their horses and use the proceeds to pay for Joe’s liquor, a handsome sum
for Owen, and the rest she would keep for her trouble.
Noon arrived and Joe was nowhere in sight, even Owen failed to find
him. Helen’s level of nervousness and anxiety rose by the minute. What
could they do if he didn’t come? She had a pass from the solicitor to
enter the prison for that evening. Rose comforted her not to despair, that
he would surely show up soon.
He did, just after three. He painted a sorry figure, sobbing quietly,
standing in front of Helen, nervously turning his hat in his hands, eyes
downcast. "Please, lady. It’s not my fault. My good wife failed to wake
me. This is why I’m late," he said, big tears rolling down his dirty
cheeks.
"Joe, it’s all right. There’s still time enough," replied Helen, her relief
all too obvious. Joe’s mien changed instantly. The tears stopped and he
chuckled quietly.
Rose exploded laughing: "Didn’t I tell you he’s a good actor?" and
added in a low voice for Helen’s ears only: "His wife ran away more than
ten years ago." Then she told Joe: "Come along now, old man, we clean
you up a bit. You thought that you’d get out of that by showing up late,
didn’t you? No such luck, Joe."
He stepped back, raising both arms to his chest as if to fend off evil.
"No water please. It’s not healthy!"
"You can’t accompany a fine lady, dirty and smelly like a rancid
cheese. Look, I’ve a brand-new set of garments for you… So, come with
me now and no more fuss. I’ll use scented water and give you a glass of
whisky afterward."
That seemed to persuade him. An hour later he came back into the
kitchen, clean-shaven, in his new outfit. He looked quite respectable,
about the same height and slim build as Andrew. Grinning, he exclaimed:
"I didn’t recognize myself in the mirror. Thought another fellow was in
the room." He made flirting eyes to Rose and said: "My oh my, Rose!
You’ll have to help me fend off the ladies."
Rose whispered to Helen: "He was quite a catch in his sober days."
He was still eyeing Rose. "You promised me a whisky. Make it a big
one, Rose."
"I wondered how long it would take you to remember that. Sit!" She
went to a cupboard, got bread and sausage and filled a small glass with
the amber liquid. She put the food in front of Joe, keeping the glass in her
hand, and ordered: "Eat this first and then you get your drink."
When he started to protest she interrupted him: "Joe, be a good boy
and eat and then you get the drink."
She watched him gobble down the sausage and bread without chewing
and then handed him the glass. Then she got more food and told Helen
and Owen to eat too, since they might not find time later on anymore.
It soon became obvious that Joe was incapable of waiting for the
appointed hour. After emptying the glass, he began walking back and
forth like a caged animal. He wanted to leave. Rose tried to keep him
happy with small doses of whisky and cups of strong coffee in between.
Helen too got more and more on edge. Occasionally, she felt her heart
beat suddenly race away. What if something went wrong? What if the
jailers won’t leave them alone in the cell? Rose had assured her that they
would have privacy, but what if she was wrong? She had a hard time
keeping still. She went back to her little room and packed all their things
in the saddle bags and then repacked them again. Only Owen seemed to
be unaffected by the tension. Even Rose’s temper started to fray.
Finally, the faint ringing of a church bell announced six o’clock. Rose
handed Helen a bottle of whisky with the instruction not to give it to Joe
before they were in the prison cell. Helen put on her jacket and the
bonnet, took Owen’s hand, and the unlikely trio left the inn by the back
entrance. Rose had chosen the hour so that there would be few people in
the streets, the workers still toiling in the factories and workshops, the
women busily cooking dinner.
Owen avoided the main streets, so they encountered few people,
except for children playing in the back alleys and the occasional women
chatting in entrances and falling quiet when they passed, eyeing them
suspiciously. They crossed Trongate. As they emerged into the square
behind the tolbooth, Owen pressed Helen’s hand in encouragement and
whispered: "There’s the entrance. Knock at the wicket, and when the
turnkey opens it, show him your pass. I’ll wait for you here. Good luck,
Joe." And he retreated into the alley.
Taking a few deep breaths, Helen hurried after Joe who had already
started toward the iron door of the prison entrance, shuffling in his
swaying gait.
"It’ll work just fine, lady. You’ll see!" He smiled, briefly grabbing her
arm and leaning over her, his alcohol breath buffeting her face.
He knocked forcefully at the door. Half a minute later the wicket
opened and the framed face of the turnkey peered out.
"What do you want?" he bellowed.
Before Helen could speak, Joe answered: "This young lady with me is
due to visit her husband, and … er, er, I’m his father." He winked at her.
"Permit!"
She handed her entry pass through the small opening. The turnkey
studied it and after a minute said: "It says here that Mrs. Campbell is
coming to visit Mr. Campbell. Nothing about another person."
Her heart jumped into her throat. She had asked Rose about this, and
the latter had assured her that they weren’t very strict in such matters.
What now? But again, Joe replied immediately: "Er, er, I’m his father
and just arrived in town this afternoon. I really need a stern word with
that young man." Then, turning to her, he whispered: "Give him a few
shillings."
She quickly passed four coins through the opening. Without further
delay, the bolt of the lock retracted with a grating noise, and the door
opened with a strident, prolonged squeak. The bulky turnkey blocked the
entrance. He looked them over carefully and, apparently reassured,
stepped aside. The heavy door closed behind them with a loud clunk, and
the turnkey locked it immediately.
Now that they were inside the prison, she was suddenly calm and alert.
They had entered a small, barren guard room, from which a narrow
staircase led to higher floors, and two low entrances opened into dark
corridors at the same level. All were secured by solid iron grilles. On the
wall hung several sets of hand and leg irons and bundles of keys.
The turnkey had two pistols stuck in his belt and carried a broadsword.
He ordered Helen to open her handbag for inspection. That was one thing
Rose hadn’t mentioned. She went hot and cold. She had a sharp knife in
it for shaving Andrew. If he found it, their plan would be wrecked.
The turnkey took the handbag and searched it. The whisky bottle was
on top. He looked down each side of it and then handed the bag back to
her, grinning: "I see you brought something to fortify your husband. He’s
a lucky man. We don’t serve that kind of liquid in this fine establishment."
For a moment, she failed to take the bag, feeling her ears growing hot,
and then uttered an embarrassed "Yes." She could hardly trust her luck.
With a loud shout that echoed through the corridors, the turnkey
summoned one of the jailers, and after consulting a large book instructed
him to conduct the pair to cell seventeen on the second floor. This time,
she needed no hint. After the jailer had opened the door to Andrew’s cell,
she gave him two shillings and begged him to wait outside, gracing him
with a charming smile. They entered, and he locked the door behind them
again.
"Oh, Helen," exclaimed Andrew and jumped up from the straw
mattress on the narrow bunk at the far end of the cell, just under the
window. He rushed to her and embraced her, holding her tightly, stroking
her hair, searching her eyes. "I love you," he whispered in Gaelic.
Then he noticed Joe, let go of her and asked in a low voice: "Who is
he?"
"Does the jailer understand Gaelic?" she whispered.
"No, why?"
"Joe here and I have come to spring you from prison," she explained
in Gaelic.
Joe had already removed his peruke and was struggling to take off his
long waistcoat.
"You’ll dress in his clothes. Then you and I will leave together, while
he takes your place. It’s all planned out carefully—"
Andrew interrupted her: "Wait, I cannot let somebody else take my
place and be convicted in my stead. What are you thinking, Helen?"
"We have no time to lose. Just do as I tell you. He won’t be convicted.
He’ll get drunk and then claim that he can’t remember anything."
She took the bottle of whisky from her bag. Joe grabbed it eagerly,
pulled out the cork with his teeth, and immediately gulped down several
swigs. Wiping his mouth, he beamed with a satisfied grin: "Oh, that feels
good… Come, master Andrew. Do as your lady tells you."
Andrew looked from one to the other.
"Andrew, please. We’ve no time to lose. Get out of your coat and I’ll
shave you. I brought a sharp blade."
She wetted a small towel with the water in the jug on the little table
and began soaking Andrew’s beard. Confused, he let her do it. With
careful movements, she trimmed the beard very close and, after soaking
it again, shaved the stubble. Seeing his confused gaze, she smiled and
kissed his clean cheek.
"Put on this peruke," she ordered.
He grimaced in disgust when he saw its filth. In fact, she had never
seen him wear a hairpiece.
"No time to be picky! Put it on," she urged. "And now the waistcoat!"
She held it open for him. Then she placed Joe’s hat on Andrew’s head
such that it shaded his eyes, the same way Joe had worn it. Finally, she
tied Joe’s red kerchief around his neck and took a step back to appraise
the result. "Yes, I think that will do."
In the meantime, Joe had put on Andrew’s short coat. She went over
to him, put Andrew’s beret on his head, hiding most of his greying hair.
Switching to English she murmured: "Now Joe, take another swallow
from that bottle, and then lie on the bed. Turn to the wall and don’t move
until the jailer has locked the door behind us. Hear me, Joe?"
He nodded, holding the bottle protectively against his chest.
"Don’t worry, I won’t take the bottle. You need it."
He grinned, took another swig, and slumped onto the mattress.
"But won’t he talk when he’s drunk?" Andrew whispered.
"Not according to Rose. Apparently, nobody will get a word out of
him, even if they put glowing iron to his soles."