“Me?” Jamie was horror-struck. He made a futile attempt to shove the strap back into Ian’s hand, but his brother-in-law ignored it. “I canna thrash the lad!”
“Oh, I think ye can,” Ian said calmly, folding his arms. “Ye’ve said often enough ye care for him as though he were your son.” He tilted his head to one side, and while his expression stayed mild, the brown eyes were implacable. “Well, I’ll tell ye, Jamie—it’s no that easy to be his Da; best ye go and find that out now, aye?”
Jamie stared at Ian for a long moment, then looked to his sister. She raised one eyebrow, staring him down.
“You deserve it as much as he does, Jamie. Get ye gone.”
Jamie’s lips pressed tight together and his nostrils flared white. Then he whirled on his heel and was gone without speaking. Rapid steps sounded on the boards, and a muffled slam came from the far end of the passage.
Jenny cast a quick glance at Ian, a quicker one at me, and then turned to the window. Ian and I, both a good deal taller, came to stand behind her. The light outside was failing rapidly, but there was still enough to see the wilting figure of Young Ian, leaning dispiritedly against a wooden gate, some twenty yards from the house.
Looking around in trepidation at the sound of footsteps, he saw his uncle approaching and straightened up in surprise.
“Uncle Jamie!” His eye fell on the strap then, and he straightened a bit more. “Are…are you goin’ to whip me?”
It was a still evening, and I could hear the sharp hiss of air through Jamie’s teeth.
“I suppose I’ll have to,” he said frankly. “But first I must apologize to ye, Ian.”
“To me?” Young Ian sounded mildly dazed. Clearly he wasn’t used to having his elders think they owed him an apology, especially before beating him. “Ye dinna need to do that, Uncle Jamie.”
The taller figure leaned against the gate, facing the smaller one, head bent.
“Aye, I do. It was wrong of me, Ian, to let ye stay in Edinburgh, and it was maybe wrong, too, to tell ye stories and make ye think of running away to start with. I took ye to places I shouldna, and might have put ye in danger, and I’ve caused more of a moil wi’ your parents than maybe ye should be in by yourself. I’m sorry for it, Ian, and I’ll ask ye to forgive me.”
“Oh.” The smaller figure rubbed a hand through his hair, plainly at a loss for words. “Well…aye. Of course I do, Uncle.”
“Thank ye, Ian.”
They stood in silence for a moment, then Young Ian heaved a sigh and straightened his drooping shoulders.
“I suppose we’d best do it, then?”
“I expect so.” Jamie sounded at least as reluctant as his nephew, and I heard Ian, next to me, snort slightly, whether with indignation or amusement, I couldn’t tell.
Resigned, Young Ian turned and faced the gate without hesitation. Jamie followed more slowly. The light was nearly gone and we could see no more than the outlines of figures at this distance, but we could hear clearly from our position at the window. Jamie was standing behind his nephew, shifting uncertainly, as though unsure what to do next.
“Mmphm. Ah, what does your father…”
“It’s usually ten, Uncle.” Young Ian had shed his coat, and tugged at his waist now, speaking over his shoulder. “Twelve if it’s pretty bad, and fifteen if it’s really awful.”
“Was this only bad, would ye say, or pretty bad?”
There was a brief, unwilling laugh from the boy.
“If Father’s makin’ you do it, Uncle Jamie, it’s really awful, but I’ll settle for pretty bad. Ye’d better give me twelve.”
There was another snort from Ian at my elbow. This time, it was definitely amusement. “Honest lad,” he murmured.
“All right, then.” Jamie drew in his breath and pulled his arm back, but was interrupted by Young Ian.
“Wait, Uncle, I’m no quite ready.”
“Och, ye’ve got to do that?” Jamie’s voice sounded a bit strangled.
“Aye. Father says only girls are whipped wi’ their skirts down,” Young Ian explained. “Men must take it bare-arsed.”
“He’s damn well right about that one,” Jamie muttered, his quarrel with Jenny obviously still rankling. “Ready now?”
The necessary adjustments made, the larger figure stepped back and swung. There was a loud crack, and Jenny winced in sympathy with her son. Beyond a sudden intake of breath, though, the lad was silent, and stayed so through the rest of the ordeal, though I blanched a bit myself.
Finally Jamie dropped his arm, and wiped his brow. He held out a hand to Ian, slumped over the fence. “All right, lad?” Young Ian straightened up, with a little difficulty this time, and pulled up his breeks. “Aye, Uncle. Thank ye.” The boy’s voice was a little thick, but calm and steady. He took Jamie’s outstretched hand. To my surprise, though, instead of leading the boy back to the house, Jamie thrust the strap into Ian’s other hand.
“Your turn,” he announced, striding over to the gate and bending over. Young Ian was as shocked as those of us in the house.
“What!” he said, stunned.
“I said it’s your turn,” his uncle said in a firm voice. “I punished you; now you’ve got to punish me.”
“I canna do that, Uncle!” Young Ian was as scandalized as though his uncle had suggested he commit some public indecency.
“Aye, ye can,” said Jamie, straightening up to look his nephew in the eye. “Ye heard what I said when I apologized to ye, did ye no?” Ian nodded in a dazed fashion. “Weel, then. I’ve done wrong just as much as you, and I’ve to pay for it, too. I didna like whipping you, and ye’re no goin’ to like whipping me, but we’re both goin’ through wi’ it. Understand?”
“A-Aye, Uncle,” the boy stammered.
“All right, then.” Jamie tugged down his breeches, tucked up his shirttail, and bent over once more, clutching the top rail. He waited a second, then spoke again, as Ian stood paralyzed, strap dangling from his nerveless hand.
“Go on.” His voice was steel; the one he used with the whisky smugglers; not to obey was unthinkable. Ian moved timidly to do as he was ordered. Standing back, he took a halfhearted swing. There was a dull thwacking sound.
“That one didna count,” Jamie said firmly. “Look, man, it was just as hard for me to do it to you. Make a proper job of it, now.”
The thin figure squared its shoulders with sudden determination and the leather whistled through the air. It landed with a crack like lightning. There was a startled yelp from the figure on the fence, and a suppressed giggle, at least half shock, from Jenny.
Jamie cleared his throat. “Aye, that’ll do. Finish it, then.”
We could hear Young Ian counting carefully to himself under his breath between strokes of the leather, but aside from a smothered “Christ!” at number nine, there was no further sound from his uncle.
With a general sigh of relief from inside the house, Jamie rose off the fence after the last stroke, and tucked his shirt into his breeks. He inclined his head formally to his nephew. “Thank ye, Ian.” Dropping the formality, he then rubbed his backside, saying in a tone of rueful admiration, “Christ, man, ye’ve an arm on ye!”