Jen stood at the font, looking weary. She was only thirty but she had borne four children and worked down the pit for twenty-three years and she was worn out. Mr. York sprinkled water on her baby’s head. Then her husband, Saul, repeated the form of words that made a slave of every Scottish miner’s son. “I pledge this child to work in Sir George Jamisson’s mines, boy and man, for as long as he is able, or until he die.”

This was the moment Mack had decided on.

He stood up.

At this point in the ceremony the viewer, Harry Ratchett, would normally step up to the font and hand over to Saul the “arles,” the traditional payment for pledging the child, a purse of ten pounds. However, to Mack’s surprise, Sir George rose to perform this ritual personally.

As he stood up, he caught Mack’s eye.

For a moment the two men stood staring at one another.

Then Sir George began to walk to the font.

Mack stepped into the central aisle of the little church and said loudly: “The payment of arles is meaningless.”

Sir George froze in midstep and all heads turned to look at Mack. There was a moment of shocked silence. Mack could hear his own heartbeat.

“This ceremony has no force,” Mack declared. “The boy may not be pledged to the mine. A child cannot be enslaved.”

Sir George said: “Sit down, you young fool, and shut your mouth.”

The patronizing dismissal angered Mack so much that all his doubts vanished. “You sit down,” he said recklessly, and the congregation gasped at his insolence. He pointed a finger at Mr. York. “You spoke about truth in your sermon, Pastor—will you stand up for truth now?”

The clergyman looked at Mack with a worried air. “What is this all about, McAsh?”

“Slavery!”

“Now, you know the law of Scotland,” York said in a reasonable tone. “Coal miners are the property of the mine owner. As soon as a man has worked a year and a day, he loses his freedom.”

“Aye,” Mack said. “It’s wicked, but it’s the law. I’m saying the law does not enslave children, and I can prove it.”

Saul spoke up. “We need the money, Mack!” he protested.

“Take the money,” Mack said. “Your boy will work for Sir George until he’s twenty-one, and that’s worth ten pounds. But—” He raised his voice. “But when he’s of age, he will be free!”

“I advise you to hold your tongue,” Sir George said threateningly. “This is dangerous talk.”

“It’s true, though,” Mack said stubbornly.

Sir George flushed purple: he was not used to being defied so persistently. “I will deal with you when the service is over,” he said angrily. He handed the purse to Saul then turned to the pastor. “Carry on, please, Mr. York.”

Mack was flummoxed. Surely they would not simply go on as if nothing had happened?

The pastor said: “Let us sing the final hymn.”

Sir George returned to his seat. Mack remained standing, unable to believe it was all over.

The pastor said: “The Second Psalm: ‘Why do the heathen rage, and the people imagine a vain thing?’ ”

A voice behind Mack said: “No, no—not yet.”

He looked around. It was Jimmy Lee, the young miner with the wonderful singing voice. He had run away once already, and as a punishment he wore around his neck an iron collar stamped with the words This man is the property of Sir George Jamisson of Fife. Thank God for Jimmy, Mack thought.

“You can’t stop now,” Jimmy said. “I’m twenty-one next week. If I’m going to be free, I want to know about it.”

Ma Lee, Jimmy’s mother, said: “So do we all.” She was a tough old woman with no teeth, much respected in the village, and her opinion was influential. Several other men and women voiced agreement.

“You’re not going to be free,” Sir George rasped, standing up again.

Esther tugged at Mack’s sleeve. “The letter!” she hissed urgently. “Show them the letter!”

Mack had forgotten it in his excitement. “The law says differently, Sir George,” he cried, waving the letter.

York said: “What is that paper, McAsh?”

“It’s a letter from a London lawyer that I’ve consulted.”

Sir George was so outraged he looked as if he might burst. Mack was glad they were separated by rows of pews; otherwise the laird might have got him by the throat. “You have consulted a lawyer?” he spluttered. That seemed to offend him more than anything else.

York said: “What does the letter say?”

“I’ll read it,” Mack said. “ ‘The ceremony of arles has no foundation in English or Scottish law.’ ” There was a rumble of surprised comment from the congregation: this contradicted everything they had been taught to believe. “ ‘The parents cannot sell what they do not own, namely the freedom of a grown man. They may compel their child to work in the mine until he reaches the age of twenty-one, but’ ”—Mack paused dramatically and read the next bit very slowly—“ ‘but then he will be free to leave!’ ”

All at once everyone wanted to say something. There was an uproar as a hundred people tried to speak, shout, begin a question or voice an exclamation. Probably half the men in the church had been pledged as children and had always considered themselves slaves in consequence. Now they were being told they had been deceived, and they wanted to know the truth.

Mack held up a hand for quiet, and almost immediately they fell silent. For an instant he marveled at his power. “Let me read one more line,” he said. “ ‘Once the man is adult, the law applies to him as it applies to everyone else in Scotland: when he has worked a year and a day as an adult he loses his freedom.’ ”

There were grunts of anger and disappointment. This was no revolution, the men realized; most of them were no more free than they had ever been. But their sons might escape.

York said: “Let me see that letter, McAsh.”

Mack went up to the front and handed it to him.

Sir George, still flushed with anger, said: “Who is this so-called lawyer?”

Mack said: “His name is Caspar Gordonson.”

York said: “Oh, yes, I’ve heard of him.”

“So have I,” said Sir George scornfully. “An out-and-out radical! He’s an associate of John Wilkes.” Everyone knew the name of Wilkes: he was the celebrated liberal leader, living in exile in Paris but constantly threatening to return and undermine the government. Sir George went on: “Gordonson will hang for this, if I have anything to do with it. That letter is treason.”

The pastor was shocked at this talk of hanging. “I hardly think treason comes into it—”

“You’d better confine yourself to the kingdom of heaven,” Sir George said sharply. “Leave it to men of this world to decide what is treason and what is not.” With that he snatched the letter out of York’s hand.

The congregation were shocked at this brutal rebuke to their pastor, and they went quiet, waiting to see how he would react. York held Jamisson’s gaze, and Mack was sure the pastor would defy the laird; but then York dropped his eyes, and Jamisson looked triumphant. He sat down again, as if it were all over.

Mack was outraged by York’s cowardice. The church was supposed to be the moral authority. A pastor who took orders from the laird was completely superfluous. Mack gave the man a look of frank contempt and said in a derisive voice: “Are we to respect the law, or not?”

Robert Jamisson stood up, flushed with anger like his father. “You’ll respect the law, and your laird will tell you what the law is,” he said.

“That’s the same as having no law at all,” Mack said.

“Which is just as well, as far as you’re concerned,” Robert said. “You’re a coal miner: what have you to do with the law? As for writing to lawyers—” He took the letter from his father. “This is what I think of your lawyer.” He tore the paper in half.

The miners gasped. Their future was written on those pages, and he was ripping them up.