by John Buchan
The man looked satisfied, but a question suggested itself to him.
“How knew you the one, if you were never here before?”
“It was the best beast i’ the place,” I said simply; and this so put his mind at rest that, with a gratuitous curse, he turned round, and I was suffered to go on unmolested.
Down the Harbour Walk I led her, for I dared not mount lest some stray trooper recognised the mare and sought to interrogate me. Very quietly and circumspectly I went, imitating a stableman by my walk and carriage as I best knew how, till in ten minutes I came to the end, and, turning up the Fisherrow, came into Leith Walk and the borders of Edinburgh.
II. — HOW I RODE TO THE SOUTH
THE NIGHT was full of wind, light spring airs, which rustled and whistled down every street and brought a promise of the hills and the green country. The stars winked and sparkled above me, but I had no mind to them or aught else save a grey house in a wood, and a girl sitting there with a heavy heart. ‘Faith, my own was heavy enough as I led Maisie through the West Vennel, shunning all but the darkest streets, for I knew not when I might be challenged and recognised, losing my way often, but nearing always to the outskirts of the town. Children brawled on the pavement, lights twinkled from window and doorway, the smell of supper came out of chink and cranny. But such things were not for me, and soon I was past all, and near the hamlet of Liberton and the highway to Tweeddale.
Now there was safety for me to mount, and it was blessed to feel the life between my knees and the touch of my mare’s neck. By good luck I had found her saddled and bridled, as if some careless, rascally groom had left her untouched since her arrival. But I would have cared little had there been no equipment save a bridle-rope. I could guide a horse on the darkest night by the sway of my body, and it was not for nothing that I had scrambled bareback about the hills of Barns. Maisie took the road with long, supple strides, as light and graceful as a bird. The big mass of Pentland loomed black before me; then in a little it fell over to the right as we advanced on our way. The little wayside cottages went past like so many beehives; through hamlet and village we clattered, waking the echoes of the place, but tarrying not a moment, for the mare was mettlesome, and the rider had the best cause in the world for his speed. Now this errand which seems so light, was, in truth, the hardest and most perilous that could be found. For you are to remember that I was a man proscribed and all but outlawed, that any chance wayfarer might arrest me; and since in those troubled times any rider was suspected, what was a man to say if he saw one dressed in gentleman’s apparel, riding a blood horse, coatless and hatless — Then, more, all the way to Peebles lay through dangerous land, for it was the road to the southwest and the Whigs of Galloway, and, since the Pentland Rising, that part had been none of the quietest. Also it was my own country, where I was a well-kenned man, known to near everyone, so what might have been my safety in other times, was my danger in these. This, too, was the road which my cousin Gilbert had travelled from Barns, and well watched it was like to be if Gilbert had aught to do with the matter. But the motion of my mare was so free, the air so fine, the night so fair, and my own heart so passionate, that I declare I had forgotten all about danger, and would have ridden down the High Street of Edinburgh, if need had been, in my great absence of mind.
I was recalled to my senses by a sudden warning. A man on horseback sprang out from the shelter of a plantation, and gripped my bridle. I saw by the starlight the gleam of a pistol-barrel in his hand.
“Stop, man, stop! there’s nae sic great hurry. You and me ‘ill hae some words. What hae ye in your pouches?”
Now I was unarmed, and the footpad before me was a man of considerable stature and girth. I had some remnants of sense left in me, and I foresaw that if I closed with him, besides the possibility of getting a bullet in my heart, the contest would take much time, and would have an uncertain ending. I was fairly at my wit’s end what with hurry and vexation, when the thought struck me that the law and military which I dreaded, were also the terror of such men as this. I made up my mind to throw myself on his mercy. Forbye, being a south-country man, the odds were great that my name would be known to him.
“I have no money,” I said, “for I came off this night hot-speed, with a regiment of dragoons waiting behind me. I am the Laird of Barns, in Tweeddale, and this day an outlaw and a masterless man. So I pray you not to detain me, for there’s nothing on me worth the picking. I have not a groat of silver, and, as you see, I ride in my shirt.”
“Are ye the Laird o’ Barns?” said the man, staring. “Man, I never kent it or I wadna hae been sae unceevil as to stop ye. Be sure that I’m wi’ ye, and sae are a’ guid fellows that likena thae lang-nebbit dragoons and thae meddlesome brocks o’ lawyers in Embro. Gang your ways for me. But stop, ye’ve nae airms. This ‘ill never dae. Tak yin o’ my pistols, for I’ll never miss it. And see, gin ye tak my advice and gin ye’ re gaun to Barns, gang off the Peebles road at Leadburn, and baud doun by the Brochtoun and Newlands ways, for a’ the way atween Leadburn and Peebles is hotchin’ wi’ sodgers and what-ye-may-ca’-thems. Guid e’en to ye, and a safe journey.” The man rode off and almost instantly was lost to my sight; but his act gave me assurance that there was still some good left in the world, though in the most unlikely places.
And now I saw before me the black woods of Rosslyn and Hawthornden, and in the near distance the roofs of the clachan of Penicuik. There I knew danger would await me, so taking a random turning to the right, I struck towards the hills in the direction of Glencorse. The place was rough and moory, and full of runlets of water, but Maisie was well used to such land, for it was no worse than the haughs of Manor, and level turf compared with the brow of the Deid Wife or the shoulder of Scrape. So in a little, when the lights of Penicuik were well on the left, I came to the Hawes Burn, which passes the Inn of Leadburn, and tracking it downward, came to the bald white house which does duty for a hostel.
I dared not enter, though I was woefully thirsty, but kept straight on to the crossroads where the two paths to Tweeddale part asunder. One — the way by which I had gone when I set out on my travels — goes over the moor and down by the springs of the Eddleston Water, through the village of that name, and thence down the vale to Peebles. The other, longer and more circuitous, cuts straight over the rough moorlands to the little village of Newlands, then over much wild country to Kirkurd, and the high hills which hem in the hamlet of Broughton, whence it is but five miles to the house of Dawyck. It is a road which I have always hated as being dismal and wild beyond any of my knowledge, but now I was glad to be on it, for every step brought me nearer to my love.
The country, in the main, is desolate heather and bog, with here and there a white cot-house where dwells a shepherd. Of late I hear that many trees have been planted and the bogs are being drained, but at the time I speak of, all was still in its virginal wildness. The road, by a good chance, is dry and easy to find, else there had been difficulties awaiting me. The night was clear and sharp, and a bright moon made the path as plain as daylight. I found time to curse that moon whenever I neared human dwellings, and to bless It heartily when I was in the desert morasses again.
In a little I saw a hilltop which, by its broad, flat shape I knew for the Black Mount, which lies above the village of Dolphinton on the way to the west country. This is a landmark of great note in the countryside, and now I could guess my whereabouts. I made out that I must be scarce two miles from the jumble of houses lining the highway which is named Kirkurd, at which spot the road fords the deep, sullen stream of Tarth. Now this same Tarth a little way down flows into the Lyne, which enters Tweed almost opposite the house of Barns. At other times I had ridden the path down its side, for it is many miles the shorter way. But I knew well that Barns would be watched like the courtyard of the Parliament House, and I durst not for my life venture near it. I deemed it unprofitable to run the risk of capture for the sake of an hour or two saved. So after passing Kirkurd, I held straigh
t on over the black moors which lie towards the watershed of the Broughton burn.
Now by good luck I had dismounted just after the bridge and buckled Maisie’s girth tight and eased the saddle, for I suspected that now I was entering the more dangerous country. The issue showed that I had guessed rightly, for just at the sharp turn of the road over the Hell’s Cleuch burn, I came near to my end. I was riding carelessly at a rapid pace through the thick wood of pines which cloaks the turn, when suddenly, ere ever I knew, I was into the middle of a detachment of horse riding leisurely in the same direction.
I do not well know how I acted, save that my pistol went off in the mellay, and I saw a man clap his hand to his shoulder in a vast hurry and swear freely. Half a dozen hands were stretched to my bridle, half a dozen pistols covered me at once. Now I had no leave to use my hands, my pistol I had fired, so I was wholly at their mercy. What happened I can only guess, for I was in too great a flurry to have any clear remembrance of the thing. I was conscious of striking one man fiercely on the cheek with my empty pistol, and of kicking another on the shins with all my might. But my sudden appearance had startled the horses so thoroughly that all the soldiers’ time was taken up in curbing them, so they had no leisure to take aim at me. A dozen shots cracked around me, all going high into the air, and in a second I was through them and on the highroad beyond, some twenty paces in advance.
But by this time they were getting their horses under, and I felt that there was no time to be lost if I wished to see many more days on the earth. I patted Maisie’s neck, which to a beast of her spirit was the best encouragement, and set myself to a race for life. I kicked off my great boots to ease her, and then, leaning forward, began the trial of speed. Behind me I heard shouting and the beat of horses getting into their stride. Before me was the long, thin highway, and black hills, and endless peatmosses. I had half a mind to leave the road and ride for the hills, where I made sure no man of them could ever follow me. But I reflected that this would shut for me the way to Dawyck, and I should have to lie hid in these regions for weeks, for when my path was once seen they would guard it more closely. My only chance was to outstrip them and so keep the country open before me.
Now began the most terrible and desperate race that I was ever engaged in. I had tried my cousin Gilbert and beaten him on the side of Scrape; now his men were taking revenge for that episode in good earnest. At this time I was no more than out of pistol shot, and though I kept this interval, and all their balls fell short, it was an unpleasing thing to be riding with shots behind you, any one of which, for all you knew, might lodge in your spine. So I strained every nerve to increase the distance.
Maisie responded gallantly to my call. I felt her long, supple swing below me and the gathering of her limbs. I began to glory in the exhilaration of the thing, and my spirits rose at a bound. The keen, cool air blew about my face, the moonlight danced on the mare’s neck, and the way in front was a long strip of light. Sometimes I could not tell whether or not I was dreaming. Sometimes I thought I was back in Holland asleep in the garden, and that all this shifting pageant of light and scenery, these cries and shots behind, and this long, measured fall of hooves were but the process of a dream. I experienced the most acute enjoyment, for all heavy cares for the future were driven away by the excitement of the chase. It was glorious, I thought, and I cared not a straw for the loss of place and fortune if the free life of the open air and the hills was to be mine. It was war to the hilt between my cousin and myself; both had flung away the scabbards; but I would master him yet and show him which was the better man. He should learn that John Burnet was never so strong as when he was most sorely pressed.
But this braggadocio exhilaration soon passed, and in its place came some measure of forethought. I reflected that though I might distance my pursuers and win to Dawyck, I would surely be tracked, and so bring misfortune on my mistress and myself. I had as yet no clear plans for the future. I had already all but burned my boats, for this night’s work was like to get me into trouble on its own account. The wild notion of fleeing to the hills and trusting to God for the rest commended itself to me more and more. But one thing I must do — abide at Dawyck till such time as Nicol should be able to join me. I had the most perfect trust in him; I had proved him a hundred times, and I knew well that if mortal man could do aught to mend my fortunes, he could do it. So with this thought I matured a plan for the present. I must put forth all my speed and win clean away from my pursuers. Now at Broughton there was an inn, where abode an honest man, one Joshua Watson, who had oft had dealings with me in the past. He was an old retainer of my house, and I knew that he would see his roof and gear in a blaze before his eyes ere he would see any harm come to a laird of Barns. To him I purposed to go and hide till the dragoons had passed. They had not recognised me, I knew, for they were not men of our countryside; and if left to themselves, would keep the highway to Moffat, and have never a thought of turning aside into Tweeddale. I whispered something to Maisie, and the good mare set herself to the task. She was still unjaded, for I had used her to long wanderings, and she had not forgotten the lesson. I listened to her steady, rhythmical breath and the measured beat of her hooves, and I thanked Heaven that I had chanced on her. At first they were maybe an eighth of a mile behind. Soon the distance increased, little by little at first, then by more and more as my mare got into her long gallop and their coarse beasts began to tire. We passed the little lonely cot of Lochurd, nestling under great green hills where the sheep bleat and the plovers cry alway. Then on by the lonely bog where men came once to dig marl and left a monstrous wide pit, filled with black water and with no bottom. I paused for a second to let Maisie drink from a burn which comes down from the Mount Hill. Soon we were at the turning where the road to Biggar and the West goes off from the highway. Here I stopped to listen for a moment. Far off and faint I heard the noise of my pursuers, and judged they were near a mile distant. Then off again; and now the road inclines downward, and as one rises over the crest of brae, which the shepherds call the Ruchill End, there bursts on the sight all the vast circle of hills, crowded and piled together, which marks the course of Tweed. Down the little glen of Broughton I rode, while the burn made music by the highway, and it was hard to think that death awaited a little behind. Soon the moors sank into fields, trees and cottages appeared, a great stone mill rose by the water, and I clattered into the village of Broughton.
The place was asleep, and, as I drew up at the inn, but one light was apparent. I hammered rudely at the door till the landlord came, sleepy and yawning, and bearing a candle in his hand. At the sight of me he started, for my danger was known over all Tweeddale. In a few words I told him of my pursuit and my request. He was a man of sparing speech, and, saying nothing, he led me to the barn and showed me a hole in a great bank of straw. Maisie he took to the stable. “Ha’e nae fear,” he said. “Trust me, I’ll settle the hash o’ thae gentry.”
Sure enough, I had not been two minutes in the place when I heard voices and the sound of horses, and creeping to the narrow, unglazed window, saw the dragoons draw up at the inn-door. Much shouting brought down the landlord, who made a great show of weariness, and looked like one just aroused from sleep.
“Heard you or saw you any man pass on horseback about five minutes syne?” they asked.
“I daresay I did,” said he. “At ony rate, I heard the sound o’ a horse, and it’s verra likely it was on the Moffat road. There’s a hantle o’ folk pass by here at a’ ‘oors.”
“Ye’re sure he didna come in here?” they said again. “We’ll search the house to see.”
“Weel,” said the landlord, “ye can dae as ye like, but it seems a gey fule’s errand. I tell ye it’s lang past midnight, and we’ve a’ been asleep here, and naebody could hae gotten in unless I had opened the door, for I hae a’ the keys. But come and look, gentlemen, and I’ll fetch ye some yill.”
They drank the ale, and then seemed to think better of their purpose, for they remou
nted. “He’ll be afF to the hills at the heid o’ Tweed,” they said. “He would never, gin he had ony sense, gang doun Tweeddale, where there’s nae hiding for man or beast.” So with many wanton oaths they set off again at a lazy gallop.
III. — THE HOUSE OF DAWYCK
I KNEW well that I had little time to lose, and that what must be done must be done quickly. So as soon as the tails of them were round the hillside, I came out from my hiding-place and mounted Maisie once more. I thanked the landlord, and with a cry that I would remember him if I ever got my affairs righted again, I turned sharply through the burn and down the path to Peebles. It was touch or miss with me, for it was unlikely that the highway between the west country and the vale of Peebles would be freed from the military.
Yet freed it was. It may have been that the folk of Tweedside were little caring about any religion, and most unlike the dour carles of the Westlands, or It may have been that they were not yet stirring. At any rate I passed unmolested. I struck straight for the ridge of Dreva, and rounding it, faced the long valley of Tweed, with Rachan woods and Drummelzier haughs and the level lands of Stobo. Far down lay the forest of Dawyck, black as ink on the steep hillside. Down by the Tweed I rode, picking my way very carefully among the marshes, and guarding the deep black moss-holes which yawned in the meadows. Here daybreak came upon us, the first early gleam of light, tingling in the east, and changing the lucent darkness of the moonlit night to a shadowy grey sunrise. Scrape raised his bald forehead above me, and down the glen I had a glimpse of the jagged peaks of the Shieldgreen Kips, showing sharp against the red dawn. In a little I was at the avenue of Dawyck, and rode up the green sward, with the birds twittering in the coppice, eager to see my love.
