Disclaimer: I do not own David Balfour or his wife Catorina. Both of those characters belong to Robert Lewis Stevenson. I was just presented with the opportunity to research the Proscription Act of 1764 and further David's story in my own way for a class project. I hope you enjoy the story. Comments and constructive criticism are always welcomed.
Chapter 1
Young Allen Balfour was juggling his thick grammar school books of basic arithmetic, Latin and English. Each one being a few good pounds heavier than Allen would have liked.
His mother would surely be at home baking some bread and singing songs to the infant Ursula but he was already on track to his father's work. His father's firm was a two-room venue. The front door opened into a quaint foyer with a rack to hang up coats and jackets and a writing desk off in the corner for Mr. Balfour's assistant to work and greet his clients. When Allen visited sometimes he was allowed to help as George, the assistant, would often remark, "Now that you are eleven, you can start helping me by…" and would task him with whatever needed to be done. Allen liked George because unlike his father's previous assistants, George actually made him feel like he was helping and doing something productive for his father.
Opening the door to his father's firm, Allen was not greeted with George sitting at his assistant's desk with a pile of papers in front of him. Instead the desk was closed and seat still tucked in from when they had closed on Friday. George rarely ever left his "seat of power" and not having his usual smiling face unnerved the boy. It was a rare occurrence that David would let his assistant's have a day off and that would only ever happen when there was a critical and important case that he was working on. This left the foyer unusually quiet as a roar came from his father's private office alerting Allen that the firm wasn't completely abandoned. The sudden noise almost made him drop his books on the cold, hardwood floor.
"Well that's not our problem, ye ken."
"It is our problem as long as the English still rule over us." His father sounded upset and angry. For a brief moment Allen had to wonder if it was smart to be here and be caught eavesdropping with his father so upset. A large sigh came from the other room and the squeaky sound of loose floorboards as someone paced in the room. "I want to help you. I truly do and the only way I can do that is if you let me! It will help speed up our time together if you tell me what happened. I am your friend, so treat me as such and let me help you." There was a short pause before his father continued with a light, "Now, you went to Martin's Wynd for supper at 7 o' clock?"
The other voice spoke, now calmer with a deep voice. "Aye. We were getting hungry and it was just off of Landmarket." Their tones had become calmer now and setting his grammar books on George's empty desk, Allen slowly started to sneak his way over. He would worry about his father being angry with him later. This person must be a noble or a general to have made his father give George the day off, the thought of being so close to such an influential person brought a mischievous smile to his face as he slowly started to creep down the hall.
"So explain to me how you got into a fight with Thomas Baker."
The other man huffed quietly as he formed his thoughts, probably trying to remember what was first and then second in the chain of events. "There were five of us, me wife and the three bairns." Bairns? Allen had never heard that term before. Maybe the person was a foreigner? But the accent sounded vaguely familiar, something similar to one of their servant's… John's voice.
"What are their names?" Allen could hear his father start to write out the notes as the other man talked.
"Me wife's name is Aileana. My eldest is Donella, she's thirteen, me boy is Jamie at eleven and me youngest is Georgiana at nine." There was a moment's pause as David wrote down the names before gesturing for the story to continue. "After ordering some food. I said to my children, 'Mi seilbhich ionndrain radharcach sibh fa'smhor' which means, 'I have missed seeing you grow up.' Donella turned to me with a silly smile and asked me, 'Papa, where did you learn that language from? Is it from the Americas?' My children didn't know Scotch. The language that I had grown up speaking with was not being taught to them." The Highlands! That's where his voice came from! But why was his father working with a Highlander and why would he send George away for that? Allen was starting to debate with himself if he should risk peeking around the corner to look into the room and potentially be caught, or just content himself with listening by the office door and looking at the shadows in safety.
"I'm sorry to hear that," David had stopped writing and had given his full attention to his client. "The few pieces that I have heard have always sounded pleasant to my ears. What happened after that?" Allen could hear his father procure another sheet of paper and re-dipping his quill so he can start writing again.
"Well it turns out that Mr. Baker had overheard my sentence. Someone hit my shoulder and I was expecting the person to be from me regiment so you bet I was very surprised to see an unfamiliar man at me shoulder, the smell of alcohol falling from his mouth. He was barely able to slur out in that ugly English voice, 'Stop talking. It's treason against the King and Parliament to speak such a language.' Now, Mr. Balfour, I've been in the military for most of me adult life. I have fought the battles and watched good men die for 'the King and Parliament's' causes and still I canna wear my plaid unless on the field. I canna even speak to my bairns in our home language because they don't understand it. And I'm not going to let a drinker, English or no, tell me what to do."
"Then why did you do it, Mr. Macgregor?" He asked in a calm and unassuming tone as he finished writing.
The Highlander laughed, "I stood up. Now usually when I stand up the conflict goes away but this one? Aye, he stood there glaring at me great frame. I told him, very gently mind ye, that I was with me family and that we would appreciate it if he would leave us alone to mind our own business in whatever language we chose to speak in. He didn't like me answer and startin' cursin' and yellin' at me and me family about things I would nah want to repeat before such an esteemed person like yourself." Well there went that idea of the man being nobility from a clan. "So, I hit him and looking back at it now, I should have left it like that. But I couldn't. I had to sing. It was a song me father taught me that his father taught him. So, I sung it in me proud native tongue and I decided to pull out me family's dirk that I had hidden in my coat. I wanted my children to see that we didn't have to be a subordinate to the English. As it turned out, that punch had killed him, or the fall from the punch did, and me children got to see their father behind bars instead.
"That's what happened, Mr. Balfour. The University should be happy to have so easily collected a specimen for them to cut open and display on their lecture tables." There was a loud and tired sigh. "Why am I being persecuted," he asked in a resounded voice, as if he already knew the answer and just wanted to make sure it was right, "When I was just standing up for meself and me country by disposing the worthless body?"
David was quiet before softly answering, "You are being persecuted because he is dead and while that may have been easily pushed under the rug because he is a man without any family, home or good reputation, you had decided to sing. You had sung in front of a dozen witnesses. 'I am Niall Macgregor!' Let me sing my family song in my native tongue and brandish-banned weapons as a cause to rally." His father's voice was growing stronger and sterner. "You may have been able to get away with it if you had done it up in the Highlands but here, in Edinburgh; you have the English to deal with. You can't be making those moves and expect to go unchecked."
The sound of a chair was pushed back as the room was suddenly full of Macgregor's footsteps as he paced back and forth in the small room. Now, undeniably curious about the man, Allen decided to peep around the corner. The first thing Allen noticed was the Highlander's face as being colored the same shade of red that matched his beard. He was dressed in black trousers and a dirty linen shirt with a black waistcoat, his head almost touching the ceiling. "Then what do you suggest I do? Apologize and let meself have a public whipping for punishment?"
"Mr. Macgregor," David spoke in a low tone, wary of heating up the Highlander. "What you need to understand is that the English persecution, in your particular case, has nothing to do with justice and everything to do with the preservation of English power. Waving the family weapon makes you proud and it informs people of your heritage, which you take strength from and absolutely terrifies the English. It's why you decided to join the military? So you can still wear the tartan and connect with your heritage? The English are fine with that as long as it's not turned on them, and you turned on them. Holding the weapon and singing in Gaelic is equivalent to wearing the plaid off hours and in public, it taunts them. It becomes not about nationalism but insurrection. The colors and patterns have their own rebellious meanings, just like the language and the weapon. For them it is rebellion. It is reminding them that they haven't broken us yet and I, personally, would rather keep it that way."
The giant of a man stopped pacing, his head almost touching the ceiling. "You want to keep us as inferior men?" His voice was dangerously soft and Allen was surprised not to see a weapon in his hand.
"The more we rebel, the more we fight back against them, the harder they're going to fall on us and restrict us till there is nothing left. If you're trying to be a martyr and cause civil change, this isn't the way to go."
The man snorted and fell back into his chair, unsatisfied. "I just want things to go back to the way they were before Culloden and the Jacobites."
"Aye." David agreed quietly, turning his attention back to the paper in front of him and making a mark. "We lost many good men during those years. Why did you seek me out for your advocate?"
"Because ye helped me clansman, Dougal, when he was tried for wrongly stealin' from Mr. Smith. Ye won his case when everything was stacked against him. I figured ye can help me in the same way."
"Except Mr. Macgregor, your clansman was framed. He did nothing wrong according to law. You don't have that same luxury so you need to listen to me and follow my advice if we're to stand a chance." His father started to move out of the chair and Allen darted back to the other side of the doorframe, watching his father's shadow move. The long shadow became ever bigger as David's footsteps came closer to the door leading into the hallway and the foyer. Not willing to risk being caught by staying there, Allen bolted from his space on the floor to the firm's front door in a quick and terrified speed that made the schoolboy forget his books on George's desk. Just closing the door and placing his head against the cold wood as his heart pounded into his ears, he didn't hear his father's soft footsteps. The front door unexpectedly opened and Allen, having braced himself against the door trying to catch his breath, promptly fell over, tumbling to his father's feet with a red and guilty face. He was caught.
Author Notes: I do not know Scottish Gaelic, how I got my translation was through a dictionary and not an official translator. If anyone does happen to know Scotch Gaelic and can translate that one sentence for me, that would be great. Thank you for reading and please review!