Bob, Son of Battle

by Alfred Ollivant

  Chapter XXVIII THE DEVIL'S BOWL

  HE sat down. In the great hall there was silence, save for a tiny soundfrom the gallery like a sob suppressed.

  The squire rose hurriedly and left the room. After him, one by one,trailed the tenants. At length, two only remained--M'Adam, sittingsolitary with a long array of empty chairs on either hand; and, at thefar end of the table, Parson Leggy, stern, upright, motionless.

  When the last man had left the room the parson rose, and with lipstight-set strode across the silent hall.

  "M'Adam," he said rapidly and almost roughly, "I've listened towhat you've said, as I think we all have, with a sore heart. You hithard--but I think you were right. And if I've not done my duty by you asI ought--and I fear I've not--it's now my duty as God's minister to bethe first to say I'm sorry." And it was evident from his face what aneffort the words cost him.

  The little man tilted back his chair, and raised his head.

  It was the old M'Adam who looked up. The thin lips were curled; a grinwas crawling across the mocking face; and he wagged his head gently, ashe looked at the speaker through the slits of his half-closed eyes.

  "Mr. Hornbut, I believe ye thocht me in earnest, 'deed and I do!" Heleaned back in his chair and laughed softly. "Ye swallered it alldown like best butter. Dear, dear! to think o' that!" Then, stretchingforward:

  "Mr. Hornbut, I was playin' wi' ye."

  The parson's face, as he listened, was ugly to watch. He shot out a handand grabbed the scoffer by his coat; then dropped it again and turnedabruptly away.

  As he passed through the door a little sneering voice called after him:

  "Mr. Hornbut, I ask ye hoo you, a minister o' the Church of England,can reconcile it to yer conscience to think--though it be but for aminute--that there can be ony good in a man and him no churchgoer? Sir,ye're a heretic--not to say a heathen!" He sniggered to himself, and hishand crept to a half-emptied wine decanter.

  * * * * *

  An hour later, James Moore, his business with the squire completed,passed through the hall on his way out. Its only occupant was nowM'Adam, and the Master walked straight up to his enemy.

  "M'Adam," he said gruffly, holding out a sinewy hand, "I'd like tosay--"

  The little man knocked aside the token of friendship.

  "Na, na. No cant, if ye please, James Moore. That'll aiblins go doonwi' the parsons, but not wi' me. I ken you and you ken me, and all thewhitewash i' th' warld'll no deceive us."

  The Master turned away, and his face was hard as the nether millstone.But the little man pursued him.

  "I was nigh forgettin'," he said. "I've a surprise for ye, James Moore.But I hear it's yer birthday on Sunday, and I'll keep it till then--he!he!"

  "Ye'll see me before Sunday, M'Adam," the other answered. "On Saturday,as I told yo', I'm comin' to see if yo've done yer duty."

  "Whether ye come, James Moore, is your business. Whether ye'll iver go,once there, I'll mak' mine. I've warned ye twice noo--" and the littleman laughed that harsh, cackling laugh of his.

  At the door of the hall the Master met David. "Noo, lad, yo're comin'along wi' Andrew and me," he said; "Maggie'll niver forgie us if wedinna bring yo' home wi' us."

  "Thank you kindly, Mr. Moore," the boy replied. "I've to see squirefirst; and then yo' may be sure I'll be after you."

  The Master faltered a moment.

  "David, ha'n yo' spoke to yer father yet?" he asked in low voice. "Yo'should, lad."

  The boy made a gesture of dissent.

  "I canna," he said petulantly.

  "I would, lad," the other advised. "An' yo' don't yo' may be sorryafter."

  As he turned away he heard the boy's steps, dull and sodden, as hecrossed the hall; and then a thin, would-be cordial voice in theemptiness:

  "I declar' if 'tisna David! The return o' the Prodeegal--he! he! Soye've seen yer auld dad at last, and the last; the proper place, sayye, for yen father--he! he! Eh, lad, but I'm blithe to see ye. D'ye mindwhen we was last thegither? Ye was kneelin' on ma chest: 'Your time'scome, dad,' says you, and wangs me o'er the face--he! he! I mind it asif 'twas yesterday. Weel, weel, we'll say nae mair about it. Boys willbe boys. Sons will be sons. Accidents will happen. And if at first yedon't succeed, why, try, try again--he! he!"

  * * * * *

  Dusk was merging into darkness when the Master and Andrew reached theDalesman's Daughter. It had been long dark when they emerged from thecosy parlor of the inn and plunged out into the night.

  As they crossed the Silver Lea and trudged over that familiar ground,where a fortnight since had been fought out the battle of the Cup, thewind fluttered past them in spasmodic gasps.

  "There 's trouble in the wind," said the Master.

  "Ay," answered his laconic son.

  All day there had been no breath of air, and the sky dangerously blue.But now a world of black was surging up from the horizon, smothering thestar-lit night; and small dark clouds, like puffs of smoke, detachingthemselves from the main body, were driving tempestuously forward--thevanguard of the storm.

  In the distance was a low rumbling like heavy tumbrils on the floor ofheaven. All about, the wind sounded hollow like a mighty scythe on corn.The air was oppressed with a leaden blackness--no glimmer of light onany hand; and as they began the ascent of the Pass they reached outblind hands to feel along the rock-face.

  A sea-fret, cool and wetting, fell. A few big rain-drops splashedheavily down. The wind rose with a leap and roared past them up therocky track. And the water-gates of heaven were flung wide.

  Wet and weary, they battled on; thinking sometimes of the cosy parlorbehind; sometimes of the home in front; wondering whether Maggie, inflat contradiction of her father's orders, would be up to welcome them;or whether only Owd Bob would come out to meet them.

  The wind volleyed past them like salvoes of artillery. The rain stormedat them from above; spat at them from the rock-face; and leapt up atthem from their feet.

  Once they halted for a moment, finding a miserable shelter in a creviceof the rock.

  "It's a Black Killer's night," panted the Master. "I reck'n he's oot."

  "Ay," the boy gasped, "reck'n he is." Up and up they climbed through theblackness, blind and buffeted. The eternal thunder of the rain was allabout them; the clamor of the gale above; and far beneath, the roar ofangry waters.

  Once, in a lull in the storm, the Master turned and looked back into theblackness along the path they had come.

  "Did ye hear onythin'?" he roared above the muffled soughing of thewind.

  "Nay!" Andrew shouted back.

  "I thowt I heard a step!" the Master cried, peering down. But nothingcould he see.

  Then the wind leaped to life again like a giant from his sleep, drowningall sound with its hurricane voice; and they turned and bent to theirtask again.

  Nearing the summit, the Master turned once more.

  "There it was again!" he called; but his words were swept away on thestorm; and they buckled to the struggle afresh.

  Ever and anon the moon gleamed down through the riot of tossing sky.Then they could see the wet wall above them, with the water tumblingdown its sheer face; and far below, in the roaring gutter of the Pass abrown-stained torrent. Hardly, however, had they time to glance aroundwhen a mass of cloud would hurry jealously up, and all again wasblackness and noise.

  At length, nigh spent, they topped the last and steepest pitch of thePass, and emerged into the Devil's Bowl. There, overcome with theirexertions, they flung themselves on to the soaking ground to drawbreath.

  Behind them, the wind rushed with a sullen roar up the funnel of thePass. It screamed above them as though ten million devils were a-horse;and blurted out on to the wild Marches beyond.

  As they lay there, still panting, the moon gleamed down in momentarygraciousness. In front, through the lashing rain, they could discern thehillocks that squat, hag-like, round the Devil's Bowl; and lying in itsbosom, i
ts white waters, usually so still, ploughed now into a thousandfurrows, the Lone Tarn.

  The Master raised his head and craned forward at the ghostly scene. Ofa sudden he reared himself on to his arms, and stayed motionless awhile.Then he dropped as though dead, forcing down Andrew with an iron hand.

  "Lad, did'st see?" he whispered.

  "Nay; what was't?" the boy replied, roused by his father's tone.

  "There!"

  But as the Master pointed forward, a blur of cloud intervened and allwas dark. Quickly it passed; and again the lantern of the night shonedown. And Andrew, looking with all his eyes, saw indeed.

  There, in front, by the fretting waters of the Tarn, packed in a solidphalanx, with every head turned in the same direction, was a flock ofsheep. They were motionless, all-intent, staring with horror-bulgingeyes. A column of steam rose from their bodies into the rain-piercedair. Panting and palpitating, yet they stood with their backs to thewater, as though determined to sell their lives dearly. Beyond them,not fifty yards away, crouched a humpbacked boulder, casting a long,misshapen shadow in the moonlight. And beneath it were two blackobjects, one still struggling feebly.

  "The Killer!" gasped the boy, and, all ablaze with excitement, beganforging forward.

  "Steady, lad, steady!" urged his father, dropping a restraining hand onthe boy's shoulder.

  Above them a huddle of clouds flung in furious rout across the night,and the moon was veiled.

  "Follow, lad!" ordered the Master, and began to crawl silently forward.As stealthily Andrew pursued. And over the sodden ground they crept, onebehind the other, like two' night-hawks on some foul errand.

  On they crawled, lying prone during the blinks of moon, stealing forwardin the dark; till, at length, the swish of the rain on the waters of theTarn, and the sobbing of the flock in front, warned them they were near.

  They skirted the trembling pack, passing so close as to brush againstthe flanking sheep; and yet unnoticed, for the sheep were soul-absorbedin the tragedy in front. Only, when the moon was in, Andrew could hearthem huddling and stamping in the darkness. And again, as it shone out,fearfully they edged closer to watch the bloody play.

  Along the Tarn edge the two crept. And still the gracious moon hid theirapproach, and the drunken wind drowned with its revelry the sound oftheir coming.

  So they stole on, on hands and knees, with hearts aghast and flutteringbreath; until, of a sudden, in a lull of wind, they could hear, rightbefore them, the smack and slobber of bloody lips, chewing their bloodymeal.

  "Say thy prayers, Red Wull. Thy last minute's come!" muttered theMaster, rising to his knees. Then, in Andrew's ear: "When I rush, lad,follow!" For he thought, when the moon rose, to jump in on the greatdog, and, surprising him as he lay gorged and unsuspicious, to deal himone terrible swashing blow, and end forever the lawless doings of theTailless Tyke.

  The moon flung off its veil of cloud. White and cold, it stared downinto the Devil's Bowl; on murderer and murdered.

  Within a hand's cast of the avengers of blood humped the black boulder.On the border of its shadow lay a dead sheep; and standing beside thebody, his coat all ruffled by the hand of the storm--Owd Bob--Owd Bob o'Kenmuir.

  Then the light went in, and darkness covered the land.