The Adventures of Yvo MacGubb

By R. B. Trotter

Somewhere about 120 years ago, there was a great lang rauchel of a fellow of the name of Yvo MacGubb, lived about Barskeoch in the Kells, who was reckoned a fearless sort of dare-devil who cared nothing for ghosts, fairies, kelpies, broonies, nor any of the supernatural animals with which every cranny of the Glenkens was believed to be swarming about that period.

To be sure, he advanced a tolerably clear reason for this unholy disregard of these mysterious characters, which was nothing less than a declaration that not one of them had any existence, except in the superstitious fears of the “idiwuts,” as he called them, who imagined they had seen them.

It may be wondered that some fearful “judgment” did not overtake a reprobate who allowed his tongue to utter such profanity; but the ways of the gods are inscrutable, and it is a well-known fact that the devil is always mindful of his own.

However, time and tide wait for no man, and Ivie MacGubb’s time came at last, like a thief in the night; yea! as the fox stealeth upon a hurcheon and devoureth its vitals before it can cry for mercy.

It so happened that Ivie—for that is the modern way of saying “Yvo”— was over at St. John’s Clachan of Dalry on the Hallowe’en nicht, with a pokeful of purns of mug-yarn for Davie M’Lamroch, the weaver, to finish the end of the week with; and besides he had to ca’ in at Saunners M’Michael, the saddler’s, to get the bridle he had left there to be sortit. By the time he had got things settled, and had had a talk about Aul’ Napoleon and Mushie de Comier, it was after elders’ hours, and so he asked both of them up to Aul’ Lucky Hair’s, wha keepit the public at Underhill, at the back of Knockcairdie—they ca it “Albyn House” noo—to see if there had any news of the war come, or any newspapers got to the village, so that they might get to know what those horrid French had been doing at the other end of the world; and, of course, they had some notion of washing down the news, whatever they were, with a stoup of Lucky’s best French brandy.

When they got into Lucky’s, the Laird of Knocksheen and two or three cronies were sitting ayont the fire, and were bantering the landlady about her alleged midnight dances in the aul’ kirk; for there had been a terrible talk in the Glenkens about some unhallowed antics that Knocksheen had witnessed in the kirk one winter’s night, when Luckie Hair was younger and bonnier than she was on the present occasion.

It was this story that Burns the poet got hold of when he first came to Nithsdale, and manufactured into the well-known history of Tam o’ Shanter, changing the names and the locality in order to avoid offending the living originals and their families.

After MacGubb came in they changed the conversation and started about ghosts, and one marvellous tale after another kept them all in a state of blissful horror till close on midnight.

Ivie began to warm up with the brandy, and considering that he was in a different parish from his own, and the minister wasn’t likely to get to know what he said, he declared that it was all confounded nonsense; that such a thing as a ghost never squeaked—only if he could just contrive to see one, he thought he could contrive to make it roar, let alone squeaking.

“Aye, aye,” says Knocksheen, “it’s a’ verra weel tae brag that way ower a jill, but if ye had tae gang bye the Stane o’ Dalarran the nicht, every bane in yer skin wud be rattlin’ for fear you wud see the Black Horseman.”

“Sorra the fear o’ me, laird,” says Ivie. “A wush a could fa’ in wi’ him. A think A wud gie a better account o’ him nor ye gied o’ the Lucky’s cantrips doon bye.”

“Nane o’ yer jibes, Ivie,” says the laird, who did not like to be ridiculed about it. “A’ll be bound ye cross the Water aboon the Boat Weil whun ye’r here at nicht, for fear ye see ocht aboot the aul’ kirkyaird.”

“’Deed no,” laird, was the reply; “there’s naething for me tae see but heidstanes, an’ they’ll no hurt us. Faith! A could gang an’ pike oot the banes frae ablow them at the deid o’ the nicht, for that pairt.”

“Ye durstna, Ivie,” says young Rorison of the Ardoch, putting in his word; “there’s no a man in the Glenkens daur do that.”

“Hoo dis Doctor Trotter o New-Gallaw get banes tae mak’ calomel poothers, than?” says Ivie. “Ye ken weel aneuch he couldna hoke up the dead in daylicht, an’ he maun get them somewey. An whaur wud he gat deadman’s fat for his rheumatism ointment, A wud like tae ken? It’s no lang sin’ ha tell’t me that he had travell’t the Glenkens nicht an’ day for forty year, an’ the warst things he ever fell in wi’ wis the gyemkeeper an’ the gauger; an it’s my notion that’s aboot the maist that onybuddy wud fa in wi, athoot it wis some o’ you young lairds stotterin hame drunk fae the village.”

“Oh, may be sae!” says Rorison; and he went up and whispered something into old Knocksheen’s lug, and then slipped out of the door, and into a neighbour’s house, where he staid a few minutes, and then came out with a bundle under his arm, and stood himself up to listen at the public-house window.

As soon as he left Lucky Nair’s [sic], old Knocksheen dashed his fist down on the table and cried out, “Ye’r naething but a braggart, Barskyoch! A’ll warrant ye’r as fley’t for ghaists in yer hert as ony o’ us. A bet ye, ye daur nae mair gang tae a fleysome bit the nicht than ye durst stap yer heid in the fire.”

“Try me!” cries MacGubb, getting warm.

“A wull try ye!” cries the laird, bouncing up and pulling out his watch. It’s joost a quarter tae twal noo, an’ A’ll wad ye a guinea ye daurna gang tae the Kenmuir Aisle o’ the aul’ kirk at twal o’clock and fetch awa a pow and bring’t here; ye ken there’s plenty o’ them lyin’ aboot yonner. Noo, daur ye?”

“A’Il do’t,” says MacGubb, “this verra minute. Chap han’s on’t. So they chapped hands.

Rorison disappeared from the window, and Ivie fortified himself with another mouthful of brandy, and then clapping on his bonnet, marched down to the aul’ kirkyaird.

In those days the handsome little Gothic kirk that now peeps out from among the few trees that have been small and stunted 5enough to escape the “benefit of clergy” had not been designed or thought of, but the shattered remains of an old pre-Reformation kirk did duty for the accommodation of the very few inhabitants who then belonged to the Establishment, and who worshipped there either because Providence had blessed them with so much poverty that they were constrained to get relief from the Session, or had gifted them with so much avarice that they grudged to fork out the small subscription for the support of a minister, necessary to constitute them members of the Whigs, or Covenanters, although perhaps their noses were long enough otherwise.

The old kirk of Dalry was then a small erection of whinstone, with granite dressings and small Gothic windows, and was said by the natives to be the original kirk built by St. John the Baptist when he came over to be chaplain to the Gordons of Kenmure, though how far this tradition is correct it might yet be dangerous to say—in the Glenkens at any rate. It appears to have been a cruciform building, but when the new kirk was built, it was all pulled down for the materials, with the exception of the south transept, or as it is called now, the Kenmure Aisle, which was allowed to remain as the burying-place of the lords of Kenmure. The portion left will be about 16 feet long by 10 broad, and is lighted by a small Gothic window. There is a door now on the western side, but when the old kirk was standing it was entered from the body of the kirk by the end of the Kenmure pew, which was removed to Greenlaw on the destruction of the old kirk.

In this Kenmure Aisle the bodies of the Kenmure Gordons were deposited; some carefully embalmed and placed in elegant and highly-ornamented coffins, which were set up on end in a row against the walls, in full view of the worshippers in the central portion of the kirk. The faces of the bodies were coloured life like, and were exposed to sight; and one of them, popularly known as John the Baptist, had a gold or gilt collar round the neck, to hide the mark, it is said, of Herod’s enormity. Another row of coffins lay at the foot of the upright ones, and had the names and ages of the occupants engraved on silver plates on the lids; and I have heard that one of these silver plates became of great importance some years ago to some parties who were disputing the ownership of the Kenmure estates.

The central portion of the aisle was strewn with a heterogenous aggregation of bones—skulls, legs, arms, vertebrae, scapulas, and other portions of the human framework, mixed about in glorious confusion, probably the remains of the pre-Reformation lords and ladies, and it might be even of that “Young Lochinvar that came out of the West” himself, and the lovely daughter of Netherby that he brought with him—knocked to “smithereens” by Prelatist and Presbyterian alike, in the troublous times of “The Persecution.”

“Guide us a!” as aul’ Wullie M’Naicht, the beddel, used to say, “but they’ll mak’ a deevil o’ a scrammel at the resurrection.”

According to an old rhyme they used to have in the Glenkens about the Gordons —

It was to this old half-ruined kirk that MacGubb wended his midnight way, and it needed a stout heart to go near it, for on one side of it was the Moat of Dalry, celebrated for its immense White Snake, and a terror to the natives besides, especially on a Hallowe’en night, from being reputed a favourite haunt of the Fairies; on the other side was the Boat Weil, a well-known haunt of a most malignant kelpie, whose especial duty it was to watch over two ponderous bronze cauldrons filled with gold, which could be plainly distinguished at certain times in the deepest of its waters; while the old kirk itself was believed to be a favourite rendezvous of all the witches in the district, and frequently honoured by the presence of Satan himself, in addition to which the hideous contents of the Kenmure Aisle made most people shudder even in broad daylight.

But MacGubb cared for none of these; his mind was on the guinea and how to get it, for guineas in those days were “bad tae get and warse tae keep.”

Entering by the north door, he groped his way cautiously through the church till he came to the Kenmure seat, which he knew by the dim light thrown into the sacred edifice from the window in the end of the gable; and, guiding himself by the pew, he soon found himself in the Kenmure Aisle, and the scattered remains of aristocratic mortality rattling among his feet.

He stooped down and groped about with both hands in search of a skull, but he came in contact with nothing but legs, ribs, and arms, and the more he searched about the more he couldn’t find what he wanted, till at last his back got sore with stooping, and he stretched himself up to his full height, which was considerable, exclaiming—“ Devver my wig! but A dinna think there’s a single pow in the haill confoundit place.”

A sepulchral groan from the farther end of the aisle sounded in response, and made him jump nearly out of his shoes; and straining his eyes in the direction of the groan, he fancied he could see a tall white figure flitting about under the window.

“Oh aye, says MacGubb, “ye’ll be John the Baptist A reckon, got up for a bit dauner likely. Ah, weel! dauner awa there.”

He then began to poke about again among the loose bones, and this time with better success, for his hand came against a brainless pow, which he picked up with a chuckle.

“Better late nor never!” says he; “this yin’Il do bravely, and he turned to carry it off.

“Lay that doon!” cried a hollow voice from the end of the aisle, “lay that doon! that’s my granfaither’s pow.”

MacGubb opened his eyes until they were the size of soup-plates almost, and his hair stood up like the birses o’ a soo, or the teeth o’ a ’oo-kame, but still he retained presence of mind enough to lay the skull carefully down and remark—“Weel, weel! A’Il lay it doon tae oblige ye, but A had an unca fash tae get it, mind ye.”

Most men would now have slid quietly away, and waited for no further commune with the spirits; but circumstances are said to alter cases, and MacGubb thought of that—he saw the loss of a guinea on the one hand, a loss he could hardly afford, and he scented the gain of a guinea on the other, and it needs no revelation to tell a Scotchman which is the better of the two; and like a long-nosed Gallovidian as he was, he determined to have another try for the guinea; and accordingly he stooped down again and manfully groped about with both hands, while one eye was occasionally cast up towards the window, to see if the grandson of the abandoned skull was likely to make an attack on him. In a short time he was rewarded for his perseverance by finding another skull, which he eagerly caught up, muttering—“Better luck this time,” and he hastened to carry it off.

“Lay that doon, ye scooneral!” cries the same unearthly voice, in angry tones; “lay that doon! that’s my faither’s pow.”

“Deevil tak’ yer faither!” says MacGubb, getting angry, “what’s he daein’ wi’ his pow here?”

The spirit responded in an awful groan, and Ivie’s teeth began to rattle like a broom-cowe in August, and he laid down the brain-pan of the old viscount, saying—“Ony wey for peace an’ quaitness,” and proceeded to search for another. Some way or other, skulls seemed to be unco scarce that night, for his search was this time long and wearisome, and frequently interrupted by hollow groans from the spirit, which kept flitting about in a restless and mysterious manner, and became more and more plainly discernible as Ivie’s eyes got accustomed to the darkness.

As he sprawled about among the fragments of the Gordons and their ladies, a leg or arm bone would sometimes fly up in his face, or a rib or two would snap under his feet, and the sounds of these, mingled with the groans of the ghost, made the sweat break out all over him, while every groan sent a cold shudder down his spine, and caused his hair to make another effort to assume the perpendicular. To make matters worse, a malicious howlet commenced its “Hoo-hoo” from the ancient bell-tower, and made Ivie almost think that “Aul’ Geordie” had arrived to take part in the proceedings. But, as a Galloway man always gets more determined the more desperate the fix he gets into, Ivie set his teeth firmly together, and drew down his brows half-way over his eyes, and if all the imps in Pandemonium had crowded about him then, they couldn’t have got him to turn from his purpose. He tore up the heaps of bones furiously with both hands, and tossed them to the sides of the aisle out of his way, rattling them up against the coffins at the sides, and bringing out many a dismal sound, and always as a bigger bone came up against a coffin lid, the spectre at the extremity of the place responded with an impressive moan.

Ivie began to get nettled at this persistent groaning, and burrowed among the bones for a leg or a thigh to pitch at the ghost and stop its nonsense, when, in shovelling out the smaller fragments in search of a biggish bone, his fingers suddenly came in contact with the prime object of his search—another skull.

The lesser odds and ends of defunct humanity were soon scattered to the side, and Ivie triumphantly hauled out his prize, and, with a long sigh of relief, ejaculated—“Lord be thankit! A hae got yin at last.”

“Lay that doon, ye infernal scooneral!” cries the ghost, with a yell. “Lay that doon! that’s my ain pow.”

“Deil may care wha’s pow it is, says Ivie, “A’m gaun tae tak’ it wi’ me, and he, made a dash for the Kenmure pew, followed by the ghost, which clutched up handfuls of bones and flung them at his head.

Round the end of the pew went Ivie, into the north transept and out by the north door, the ghost close behind him, pitching a bone at him every now and then, and uttering inhuman howls; while the howlet in the belfry overhead, disturbed by the commotion below, made the place resound with his dolorous “hoo-hoo-hoo!’

Once out of the door, MacGubb’s long legs stood him in good stead, and the steps he took were fearful: headstanes and thruhhstanes were cleared at a bound, and in half a minute he was in the road, with the hard-won prize clasped to his bosom; and feeling now beyond the reach of possible danger, he took the skull in his right hand and, waving it over his head, shouted “Hurray! a snuff for the haill o’ them—Gordons, gowks, an’ everything!”

The words were hardly out of his mouth when he heard a rattle behind him, and a hand made a glaum at the skull and nearly claught it out of his grasp; and turning his eyes about he was amazed to see the ghost within a yard of him, arrayed in the garments of the other world, and striving to get hold of his former property.

Dismay and horror nearly overcame him, but, setting his teeth again, he made a despairing spang to the side, avoiding the spectre, and up the hill like a greyhound, still holding on to the precious bone.

Looking every now and then behind him, he found the vision close at his heels, its celestial robes streaming in the wind, while one hand flourished a thigh-bone furiously over its head, as if determined to brain the fugitive.

Fast flew MacGubb, and fast flew the apparition at his heels, so that it was almost a dead heat between them; but MacGubb contrived to keep the lead until they reached Lucky Hair’s. To Ivie’s consternation, the door was closed and, for anything he knew, might be barred, and he hadn’t a moment to spare to test it; and seeing this at a glance, he rushed with all his might down the bit brae before the inn, and throwing himself against the door with his utmost force, sent it thundering into the middle of the house with a tremendous brainge, nearly breaking his own neck in the performance, and dashing up to the table where Knocksheen and his cronies were sitting in mute amazement, tossed down the skull on the table, and gasping for breath, exclaimed “There’s the pow, an’ the owner’s at the door.”

The owner, however, didn’t enter; some religious antipathy existing between spirits in a kirkyard and spirits in a bottle perhaps preventing him.

MacGubb fell down on the floor in a faint, but a little water and some brandy soon brought him to; and in a few minutes young Rorison came in; and acknowledging that MacGubb had fairly won the wager, Forrester tabled his guinea like a man, and stood brandy all round, while Ivie regaled them all with an account of his adventure, making the hair of the listeners rise in horror on their heads; all except Rorison and Forrester, who roared and laughed at the more horrible passages, till not only the tears streamed from their eyes, but till they actually rolled with laughter on the floor.