In which Henry takes me to Wigtown for a book

“Before we head up to Ayr we should take the bus to Wigtown”, says H V, “and I will educate you ‘twenty first century www’s’ on exactly what you are missing”. “They are things called ‘books’, and I insist that you do not leave Galloway without owning one; or at least feeling one in your hand”.

To emphasise the point Henry points to the letters FRSL after his name. “Fellow of the Royal Society of Literature”, he whispers discretely. “Order of the Phoenix Greece, and Order of Merit of the Italian Republic too”, he adds, “although I don’t speak about the latter since Italy became so liberal”. “And if you are a good student, I will treat you to a half of best bitter in the ‘Galloway Bar’ in the Main Street of Scotland’s Book Town”.

To see a country, you have to put on your boots, cut a stout walking stick from the hedge, brave the elements, and tramp with the feet of the curious. Alternatively, you wave down a bus. So that is precisely what H V and I did, taking window seats towards the back to afford a better view of the Galloway countryside. It is rich and lush. Rainfall ensures that it is washed and verdant. From our perch we look east to the blue sea and west into the low lying green hills of Wigtownshire.

Shortly after crossing the River Bladnoch (with its new distillery bearing the sign ‘Closed to the Public’), we enter Wigtown from the south and alight by the inn. Ahead is a seriously elegant town boasting a huge Main Street. Here, no matter what the shop, it features books. Henry smiles. “It is like stepping back to 1933”, he says as he leads me to ‘The Book Shop’ - the largest for second hand books in Scotland. 

  

Within moments I loose H V amongst a thousand dusty tomes, later to see him holding a wooden ladder on which a young girl is doing his bidding to retrieve a lost 1929 first edition of  ‘In Search of Scotland’. 

  

Beltie Books comes next, where tea, scones and jam delaying our desire for a pint. And then we descend towards the ancient Parish Church of Machutus. “Solitary penance; prayer and mortification; let us leave St Machutus to his fate and go cheer ourselves by the bay”, remarks H V as he closes the old oak door, turning to his left and ignoring two commemorative marbles bearing the names ‘Margaret’.

There was a dispute in the 17th century between the Church and the Monarchy.  It is 1685. The King, now ruling over both England and Scotland, forced Episcopalianism on Scotland;  the people who refused this imposition, having signed a Covenant together to do so, became known as Covenanters. The campaign against the Covenanters escalated, with rulings, legislation, and sanctions such as fines, banishment and finally the execution of ‘The Wigtown Martyrs’.

 

Margaret and Agnes Wilson were the daughters of Gilbert Wilson, a prosperous farmer. Gilbert and his wife conformed, and attended Episcopalian services in the parish church. Their children  refused, so their father was fined by the Courts, and had soldiers billeted upon him. They stole his stock and possessions leaving him all but ruined.

With the death of Charles II in February 1685, there was hope for a lull in persecution.  The young Wilson girls, Margaret and Agnes, came down from the hills to live with Margaret McLachlan, a 63 year old widow.  A local man betrayed them when they came into Wigtown, and the two girls were taken prisoner.  At the same time, Margaret McLachlan was seized while at prayer in her own home.  The women were required to take the Oath of Abjuration which, a year earlier on the order of the Privy Council, had been administered to everyone in the County over the age of 13 years.  

Refusal to swear the Oath allowed execution without trial;  men could be hanged or shot;  a new sentence had been introduced for women:  death by drowning.  The women refused the Oath and were brought before the Commission.  The Commissioners, described as ‘five of the most vicious scoundrels in Scotland’ found the three women guilty on all charges and they sentenced them  ‘to be tyed to palisadoes and fixed in the sand, within the flood mark, at the mouth of the Blednoch stream, and there to stand till the flood over flowed them, and [they] drowned”. Agnes (aged only thirteen at the time) was reprieved when her father promised to pay a huge bond of £100.

On 30 April 1685, a pardon was issued in Edinburgh for the two Margarets.  It mysteriously disappeared.  The women were taken out and tied to stakes in the waters of the Bladnoch on 11 May 1685.  The older woman was tied deeper in the river channel forcing 18 year old Margaret to witness her death, in the hope that she would relent.  Instead, she seemed to take strength from the older woman’s fate, singing a psalm, and quoting scripture.

The Penninghame parish records say that Margaret Wilson’s head was held up from the water, beseaching her to pray for the King.  She answered that she wished the salvation of all men, but the damnation of none.

The Kirkinner records state that Margaret McLachan’s head had been “held down within the water by one of the town officers by his halberd at her throat, til she died”.  A popular account adds that the officer said “then tak’ another drink o’t my hearty”.  Legend has it that for the rest of his life the man had an unquenchable thirst, and had to stop and drink from every ditch, stream, or tap he passed, and he was deserted by his friends.

Henry and I gaze out across the now boggy marsh beyone the cross marking the place of execution. Gulls rise in the distance and two black crows cawk from a nearby ash. A chill breeze blows through the willows. 

“We had better go for that earlier bus”, says HV. “Somehow, I no longer have the desire for a pint in the Galloway Inn”, he continues, pulling down his felt fedora and knocking the bowl of his pipe against the wooden rail.