The Standard Bearer

The Standard Bearer

S. R. Crockett

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A book iron-grey and chill is this that I have written, the tale of times when the passions of men were still working like a yeasty sea after the storms of the Great Killing. If these pages should chance to be read when the leaves are greening, they may taste somewhat unseasonably in the mouth. For in these days the things of the spirit had lost their old authority without gaining a new graciousness, and save for one man the ancient war-cry of “God and the Kirk” had become degraded to “The Kirk and God.”

The Standard Bearer THE FOREWORD

A book iron-grey and chill is this that I have written, the tale of times when the passions of men were still working like a yeasty sea after the storms of the Great Killing. If these pages should chance to be read when the leaves are greening, they may taste somewhat unseasonably in the mouth. For in these days the things of the spirit had lost their old authority without gaining a new graciousness, and save for one man the ancient war-cry of "God and the Kirk" had become degraded to "The Kirk and God."

This is the story of the one man whose weak and uncertain hand held aloft the Banner of Blue that I have striven to tell-his failures mostly, his loves and hates, his few bright days and his many dark nights. Yet withal I have found green vales of rest between wherein the swallow swept and the cuckoo called to her mate the cry of love and spring.{viii}

Who would know further and better of the certainty of these things must procure and read A Cameronian Apostle, by my excellent friend, the Reverend H. M. B. Reid, presently minister of the parish wherein these things were done, in whose faithful and sympathetic narrative they will find many things better told than I can tell them. The book may be had of the Messrs. Gardiner, of Paisley, in Scotland.

Yet even in this imperfect narrative of strange events there may be heard the beating of a man's heart, weak or strong, now arrogant, and now abased, not according to the fear of man or even of the glory of God, but more according to the kindness which dwelt in woman's eyes.

For there is but one thing stronger in the world than the love of woman. And that is not of this world.

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The heavy iron gates of the Wilderness Correction Camp groaned as they released me after three years of state-sponsored hell. I stood on the dirt road, clutching a plastic bag that held my entire life, waiting for the family that claimed they sent me there for "rehab." My brother, Brady, picked me up in a luxury SUV only to throw me out onto a deserted highway in the middle of a brewing storm. He told me I was a "public relations nightmare" and that the rain might finally wash the "stink" of the camp off me. He drove away, leaving me to limp miles through the mud on a snapped ankle. When I finally dragged myself to our family estate, my mother didn't offer a hug; she gasped in horror because my muddy clothes were ruining her Italian marble. They didn't give me my old room back. Instead, they banished me to a moldy gardener’s shack and hired a "babysitter" to make sure I didn't embarrass them further. My sister, Kaleigh, stood there in white cashmere, pretending to cry while clinging to her fiancé, Ambrose—the man who had once been mine. They all treated me like a volatile junkie, refusing to acknowledge that Kaleigh was the one who planted the drugs in my bag three years ago. They wanted to believe I was broken so they wouldn't have to feel guilty about the "wellness retreat" that was actually a torture chamber. I sat in the dark of that shed, feeling the cooling gel on the cigarette burns that covered my arms, and realized they had made a fatal mistake. They thought they had erased me, but I had returned with a roadmap of scars and a hidden satellite phone. At dinner, I didn't beg for their love. I simply rolled up my sleeves and showed them the price of their silence. As the wine spilled and the lies crumbled, I sent a single text to the only person I trusted: "I'm in. Let them simmer." The hunt was finally on.

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The Standard Bearer The Standard Bearer S. R. Crockett Adventure
“A book iron-grey and chill is this that I have written, the tale of times when the passions of men were still working like a yeasty sea after the storms of the Great Killing. If these pages should chance to be read when the leaves are greening, they may taste somewhat unseasonably in the mouth. For in these days the things of the spirit had lost their old authority without gaining a new graciousness, and save for one man the ancient war-cry of “God and the Kirk” had become degraded to “The Kirk and God.””
1

THE FOREWORD

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CHAPTER I. THE YEAR TERRIBLE

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CHAPTER II. THE BLOOD OF THE MARTYRS

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CHAPTER III. THE LITTLE LADY OF EARLSTOUN

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CHAPTER IV. MY SISTER ANNA

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CHAPTER V. I CONSTRUCT A RAFT

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CHAPTER VI. ACROSS THE MOONLIGHT

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CHAPTER VII. MY BROTHER HOB

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CHAPTER VIII. THE MUSTER OF THE HILL FOLK

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CHAPTER IX. I MEET MARY GORDON FOR THE SECOND TIME

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CHAPTER X. THE BLUE BANNER IS UP

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CHAPTER XI. THE RED GRANT

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CHAPTER XII. THE LASS IN THE KIRKYARD

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CHAPTER XIII. MY LADY OF PRIDE

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CHAPTER XIV. THE TALE OF MESS HAIRRY

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CHAPTER XV. ALEXANDER-JONITA

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CHAPTER XVI. THE CORBIES AT THE FEAST

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CHAPTER XVII. THE BONNY LASS OF EARLSTOUN

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CHAPTER XVIII. ONE WAY OF LOVE

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CHAPTER XIX. ANOTHER WAY OF LOVE

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CHAPTER XX. MUTTERINGS OF STORM

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CHAPTER XXI. THE EYES OF A MAID

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CHAPTER XXII. THE ANGER OF ALEXANDER-JONITA

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CHAPTER XXIII. AT BAY

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CHAPTER XXIV. MARY GORDON'S LAST WORD

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CHAPTER XXV. BEHIND THE BROOM

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CHAPTER XXVI. JEAN GEMMELL'S BARGAIN WITH GOD

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CHAPTER XXVII. RUMOUR OF WAR

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CHAPTER XXVIII. ALEXANDER-JONITA'S VICTORY

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CHAPTER XXIX. THE ELDERS OF THE HILL FOLK

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CHAPTER XXX. SILENCE IS GOLDEN

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CHAPTER XXXI. THE FALL OF EARLSTOUN

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CHAPTER XXXII. LOVE OR DUTY

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CHAPTER XXXIII. THE DEMONIAC IN THE GARRET

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CHAPTER XXXIV. THE CURSING OF THE PRESBYTERY

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CHAPTER XXXV. LIKE THE SPIRIT OF A LITTLE CHILD

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CHAPTER XXXVI. THE STONE OF STUMBLING

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CHAPTER XXXVII. FARE YOU WELL!

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CHAPTER XXXVIII. "I LOVE YOU, QUINTIN!"

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CHAPTER XXXIX. THE LAST ROARING OF THE BULL

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