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He pauses, like he is forcing back his racing thoughts to remain composed long enough to finish this conversation.
“This was Thomas’s greatest fear,” Robert says. “That too much of the plan depended on the unknown.”
Robert leans forward until his palms are flat on the table and the lamplight catches the tendons in his wrists. His eyes are bright with that dangerous clarity of a man who has been thinking himself sick.
“France showed the world kings could fall,” he says. “They’d come before, so men believed they’d aide us again with real numbers, real arms, real discipline.”
He gestures at the paper.
“They were hauling men out of their beds in night raids. Taking whatever arms they could find. Jailing men on suspicion before there was even a gathering to prove. We’ve learned well enough that when the Crown starts that, you can’t wait for perfection. You either move, or you’re removed.”
The fire gives a sharp pop.
“Once a date’s set, signals are agreed upon, and a thousand men have been told to stand ready, the thing has a life of its own.” He gives a short, humourless exhale. “And now the Crown’ll make an example of them. Not only to punish this rising, but to warn the next. Nothing carries quicker than fear.”
The paper rustles in my hands as I adjust my grip.
“They knew the risk,” he says. “And they knew the alternative, too.”
I swallow. “I think we all kent the risk. Even when Trinity put us out for bein’ too close to you. We all kept hopin’ for a better outcome. Hoped things would change.”
Alex cuts in. “Back home, the whole idea of independence started the same way.” He exhales. “They took losses that near broke them, and saw victories that must have looked like miracles. It took years, and it cost plenty, but it proved you can push back. You can build something new.” He looks around the room then. “I find it hard to believe this is just… over.”
Robert stares at the floorboards, one hand braced beneath his chin. “I don’t want it to be over, but I don’t know how they’d gather enough support again now that they’ve seen the worst it’s been in years.”
He runs both hands through his hair, hard enough to tug at the roots. “All I’ve got to go off of is what Thomas told me before they took him, and what this print is trying to turn into a victory hymn. And what I know is that it looks bad.”
He paces again, hands lifting in small, habitual motions, as though moving pieces across an unseen board.
“But I’ve been thinking about it, even before we left. We know how the Crown answers fear.” His voice drops. “They don’t cage every man. They take the strong ones first—the ones with means, influence, and enough spine not to bend to every demand thrust upon them. Then they draw the net tight around the towns and ports, and those left behind are easier to break without their strongest men there to stand for them.”
His jaw works, then he worries his lower lip for a beat. “Cowards. Making wives and children part of the warning. Turning whole districts inside out to punish one baseless rumour.”
His gaze fixes on the floorboards again. For a moment, he looks almost vacant, but I know better. Too much is moving behind his eyes for that.
“So even if you want to rise again, you’re doing it while they circle you, watching who speaks, watching who meets, watching who has a name worth taking first.”
Ellen’s voice comes softly from the hearthside, as though the conclusion itself turns her stomach. “So the rising becomes…”
“Fragmented,” Robert says at once. “Broken into pieces. Men fighting brave but blind, only to be left hopeless and alone when it’s over. That’s what they want most—a dead place in you where defiance used to live.”
I can feel his words catching in every chest, because there’s not one of us who doesn’t know, in some private place, exactly what he means.
My father’s grip tightens around my mother’s waist.
“I cannae look at them and call ’em fools,” Da says. “This family fought against the unjust, so we ken what it is to be cornered.”
Old memories move behind his aged eyes, darkening them for a fleeting moment.
“My da and granda stood against the King’s men at Culloden,” he says. “And we paid for it. The Crown took the land and our home. Men came through our rooms with ledgers in hand, writin’ down what a life was worth, then sellin’ off anything that would fetch coin.”
He breathes out through his nose, steadying himself.
“They went to Wick after,” he goes on. “A burgh house near the harbour. Close enough to see what was theirs, but powerless to touch it.”
His voice stays level, but his tone sharpens.
“Then, in ’84, the door finally cracked open again. They said the annexed estates could be restored, aye. But only on terms. Only if a man paid back what the Government claimed it had spent clearing the debts. So we fought for it twice, once with blood, then with paper and coin. We had to buy back what they had taken.”
