by John Buchan
“What do you want with us?” he said in a tone of mingled sulkiness and bravado. “Let me tell you, I am one of His Majesty’s dragoons, and you’ll pay well for any ill you do to me. I care not a fig for you, for all your gentrice. If you would but lay down your pop-guns and stand before me man to man, I would give you all the satisfaction you want.”
The fellow was a boor but he spoke like a man, and I liked him for his words. But I replied grimly:
“I will have none of your bragging. Go and try that in your own stye, you who shoot at women. I will give you as long as I may count a hundred, and if before that you have not stripped off every rag you have on and come forward to me here, by God I will shoot you down like the dogs you are.”
And with this I began solemnly to count aloud.
At first they were still rebellious, but fear of the death which glinted to them from the barrels of the pistols won the mastery. Slowly and with vast reluctance they began to disrobe themselves of belt and equipments, of coat and jackboots, till they stood before me in the mild spring air as stark as the day they were born. Their faces were heavy with malice and shame.
“Now,” said I to Nicol, “dismount and lay on to these fellows with the flat of your sword. Give me your pistol, and if either makes resistance he will know how a bullet tastes. Lay on, and do not spare them.”
So Nicol, to whom the matter was a great jest, got down and laid on lustily. They shouted most piteously for mercy, but none they got till the stout arm of my servant was weary.
“And now, gentlemen, you may remount your horses. Nay, without your clothes; you will ride more freely as you are. And give my best respects to your honourable friends, and tell them I wish a speedy meeting.”
But as I looked in the face of one, him who had been so terror-stricken at the outset, I saw that which I thought I recognised.
“You, fellow,” I cried, “where have I seen you before?”
And as I looked again, I remembered a night the year before on the Alphen road, when I had stood over this very man and questioned him on his name and doings. So he had come to Scotland as one of the foreign troops,
“I know you, Jan Hamman,” said I. “The great doctor Johannes Burnetus of Lugdunum has not forgotten you. You were scarcely in an honest trade before, but you are in a vast deal less honest now. I vowed if ever I met you again to make you smart for your sins, and I think I have kept my word, though I had the discourtesy to forget your face at first sight. Good morning, Jan, I hope to see you again ere long. Good morning, gentlemen both.”
So the luckless pair rode off homeward, and what reception they met with from their captain and their comrades who shall say?
Meanwhile, when they were gone for some little time, Nicol and I rode back by a round-about path. When I began to reflect, I saw the full rashness of my action. I had burned my boats behind me with a vengeance. There was no choice of courses before me now. The chase would be ten times hotter against me than before, and besides I had given them some clue to my whereabouts. You may well ask if the danger to my love were not equally great, for that by this action they would know at least the airt by which she had fled, I would answer that these men were of Gilbert’s own company, and one, at least, of them, when he heard my name, must have had a shrewd guess as to who the lady was. My cousin’s love affairs were no secret. If the man had revealed the tale in its entirety, his own action must necessarily have been exposed, and God help him who had insulted one whom Gilbert cared for. He would have flayed the skin from him at the very mention.
To my sober reason to-day the action seems foolhardy in the extreme, and more like a boyish frolic than the work of a man. But all I knew at the time, as I rode back, was that my pride was for the moment soothed, and my heart mightily comforted.
VIII. — OF OUR WANDERINGS AMONG THE MOORS OF CLYDE
IF THERE had been haste before in our journey there was the more now, when in a few hours the countryside would be alive with our foes. I hurriedly considered in my mind the course of events. In three hours’ riding the soldiers, all stark as they were, would come to Abington, and in three more the road to Douglasdale would be blocked by a dozen companies. It was no light thing thus to have set the whole hell’s byke in Clydesdale buzzing about my ears.
We were not long in reaching the cave. Here to my joy I found Marjory all recovered from her fright, and the wound hurting her no more than a pin’s scratch. When I spoke of immediate progress she listened gladly and was for setting out forthwith. I did not tell her of the soldiers’ discomfiture, for I knew that she would fall to chiding me for my foolhardiness, and besides she would have more dismal fears for my future if she knew that I had thus incensed the military against me.
It was with much regret that I bade farewell to Master Lockhart and the old man; nor would they let me go without a promise that if I found myself hard pressed at any time in the days to come I would take refuge with them. I was moved by the sight of the elder, who laying his hand on my lady’s head, stroked her fair golden hair gently and said, “Puir lass, puir lass, ye’re no for the muirs. I foresee ill days coming for ye when ye’ll hae nae guid sword to protect ye. But lippen weel to the Lord, my bairn, and He’ll no forsake ye.” So amid the speaking of farewells and well-wishes we rode out into the green moors.
How shall I tell of that morning ride? I have seen very many days in April now, for I am a man aging to middle life, but never have I seen one like that. The sky was one sheet of the faintest blue, with delicate white clouds blown lightly athwart it. The air was so light that it scarce stirred the grass, so cool that it made our foreheads as crisp and free as on a frosty winter’s day, so mild that a man might have fancied himself still in the Low Lands. The place was very quiet save for a few sounds and these the most delectable on earth — the cries of sheep and the tender bleating of young lambs, the rise and fall of the stream, the croon of rock pigeons, and the sterner notes of curlew and plover. And the grass was short and lawnlike, stretching in wavy ridges to the stream, seamed with little rush-fringed rills and patched with fields of heath. Only when we gained the edge had we any view of country, and even then it was but circumscribed. Steep fronting hills, all scarred with ravines i beyond, shoulders and peaks rising ever into the distance, and below us the little glen which holds the head waters of Tweed.
We crossed the river without slacking rein, for the water scarce reached above our horses’ pasterns. And now we struck up a burn called the Badlieu, at the foot of which was a herd’s shieling. The spirit of the spring seemed to have clean possessed Marjory and I had never seen her so gay. All her past sorrows and present difficulties seemed forgotten, and a mad gaiety held her captive. She, who was for usual so demure, now cast her gravity to the winds, and seemed bent on taking all the joys of the fair morning. She laughed, she sang snatches of old songs, and she leaped her horse lightly over the moss-trenches. She stooped to pluck some early white wind-flowers, and set some in her hair and some at her saddle-bow.
“Nay, John,” she cried, “if you and I must take to the hills let us do it with some gallantry. It is glorious to be abroad. I would give twelve months of sleepy peace at Dawyck for one hour of this life. I think this must be the Garden of Perpetual Youth in the fairy tale.”
The same mad carelessness took hold on me also. Of a sudden my outlook on the world changed round to the opposite, and the black forebodings which had been ever present to distress me, seemed to vanish like dew before the sun. Soon I was riding as gaily as she; while Nicol, as he ran with great strides and unfaltering breath, he too became light-hearted, though to tell the truth care was not a commodity often found with him.
Soon we had climbed the low range which separates the Clyde glen from the Tweed and turned down the narrow ravine of the burn which I think they call Fopperbeck, and which flows into the Evan Water. Now it would have been both easier and quieter to have ridden down the broad, low glen of the Medlock Water, which flows into Clyde by the village of Crawford. B
ut this would have brought us perilously near the soldiers at Abington, and if once the pursuit had begun every mile of distance would be worth to us much gold. Yet though the danger was so real I could not think of it as any matter for sorrow, but awaited what fate God might send with a serene composure, begotten partly of my habitual rashness and partly of the intoxication of the morn.
We kept over the rocky ravine through which the little river Evan flows to Annan, and came to the wide moorlands which stretch about the upper streams of Clyde. Here we had a great prospect of landscape, and far as eye could see no living being but ourselves moved in these desolate wastes. Far down, just at the mouth of the glen where the vale widens somewhat, rose curling smoke from the hamlet of Elvanfoot, a place soon to be much resorted to and briskly busy, since, forbye lying on the highway ‘twixt Edinburgh and Dumfries, it is there that the by-path goes off leading to the famous lead mines, at the two places of Leadhills and Wanlockhead. But now it was but a miserable roadside clachan of some few low huts, with fodder for neither man nor beast.
As we rode we looked well around us, for we were in an exceeding dangerous part of our journey. To the right lay Abington and the lower Clyde valley, where my sweet cousin and his men held goodly fellowship. Even now they would be buckling saddlestraps, and in two hours would be in the places through which we were now passing. To the left was the long pass into Nithsdale, where half a score of gentlemen did their best to instill loyalty into the Whigs of the hills. I hated the land to that airt, for I had ever loathed the south and west countries, where there is naught but sour milk and long prayers without a tincture of gentrice or letters. I was a man of Tweeddale who had travelled and studied and mingled among men. I had no grudge against sheltering with the Tweedside rebels, who were indeed of my own folk; but I had no stomach for Nithsdale and Clydesdale rant and ill fare. Had not necessity driven me there I vow I should never have ventured of myself; and as I rode I swore oftentimes that once I were free of my errand I would seek my refuge in my own countryside.
And now we were climbing the long range which flanks the Potrail Water, which is the larger of the twin feeders of Clyde. Now we turned more to the north, and skirting the wild hills which frown around the pass of Enterkin, sought the upper streams of the Duneaton Water. I cannot call to mind all the burns we crossed or the hills we climbed, though they have all been told to me many a time and again. One little burn I remember called the Snar, which flowed very quietly and pleasantly in a deep, heathery glen. Here we halted and suffered our horses to graze, while we partook of some of the food which the folk of the Cor Water had sent with us. Now the way which we had come had brought us within seven miles of the dragoons’ quarters at Abington, for it was necessary to pass near them to get to Douglasdale and Smitwood. But they had no clue to our whereabouts, and when they set forth against us must needs ride first to the Tweed valley.
Here in this narrow glen we were in no danger save from some chance wandering soldier. But this danger was the less to be feared, since if Gilbert had any large portion of his men out on one errand he would be sure to set the rest to their duties as garrison. For my cousin had no love for lax discipline, but had all the family pride of ordering and being obeyed to the letter. So we kindled a little fire by the stream-side, and in the ashes roasted some eggs of a muirfowl which Nicol had picked up on the journey; and which with the cheese and the cakes we had brought made a better meal than I might hope for for many days to come. We sat around the fire in the dry heather ‘neath the genial sun, thanking God that we were still alive in the green world and with few cares save the frustrating of our foes. Marjory was somewhat less cheerful than in the morning, partly from the fatigue of riding, which in these waste places is no light thing, and partly because anxiety for my safety and sorrow at our near parting were beginning to oppress her. For herself, I verily believe, she had no care, for she was brave as a lion in the presence of what most women tremble at. But the loneliness of a great house and the never-appeased desire for knowledge of my safety were things which came nearer so rapidly that I did not wonder she lost her gaiety.
“Oh, what will you do alone in these places?” she said. “If you had but one with you, I should be comforted. Will you not let Nicol accompany you:
Now when my lady looked at me with melting eyes and twined her hands in her eagerness, it was hard to have to deny her. But I was resolved that my servant should abide at Smitwood to guard her and bring me tidings if aught evil threatened.
“Nay, dear,” I said, “that may not be. I cannot have you left with an old man who is helpless with age and a crew of hireling servants. I should have no heart to live in the moors if I had not some hope of your safety. Believe me, dear, I can very well defend myself. My skill of hillcraft is as good as any dragoon’s, and I have heard folk say that I am no ill hand with a sword. And I know the countryside like the palm of my own hand, and friends are not few among these green glens. Trust me, no ill will come near me, and our meeting will be all the merrier for our parting.”
I spoke heartily, but in truth I was far from feeling such ease of mind. For my old cursed pride was coming back, and I was beginning to chafe against the beggarly trade of skulking among the moors when I had a fine heritage for my own, and above all when I was a scholar and had thoughts of a peaceful life. I found it hard to reconcile my dream of a philosophic life wherein all things should be ordered according to the dictates of reason, with the rough and ready times which awaited me, when my sword must keep my head, and my first thought must be of meat and lodging, and cunning and boldness would be qualities more valuable than subtle speculation and lofty imaginings.
In a little we were rested and rode on our way. Across the great moors of Crawfordjohn we passed, which is a place so lonely that the men in these parts have a proverb, “Out of the world and into Crawfordjohn.” We still kept the uplands till we came to the springs of a burn called the Glespin, which flows into the Douglas Water. Our easier path had lain down by the side of this stream past the little town of Douglas. But in the town was a garrison of soldiers — small, to be sure, and feeble, but still there — who were used to harry the moors around Cairntable and Muirkirk. So we kept the ridges till below us we saw the river winding close to the hill and the tower of Smitwood looking out of its grove of trees. By this time darkness was at hand, and the last miles of our journey were among darkening shadows. We had little fear of capture now, for we were on the lands of the castle, and Veitch of Smitwood was famed over all the land for a cavalier and a most loyal gentleman. So in quiet and meditation we crossed the stream at the ford, and silently rode up the long avenue to the dwelling.
IX. — I PART FROM MARJORY
“I’VE travelled far and seen many things, but, Gad, I never saw a stranger than this. My niece is driven out of house and home by an overbold lover, and you. Master Burnet, come here and bid me take over the keeping of this firebrand, which, it seems, is so obnoxious to His Majesty’s lieges.”
So spake the old laird of Smitwood, smiling. He was a man of full eighty years of age, but still erect with a kind of soldierly bearing. He was thin and tall, and primly dressed in the fashion of an elder day. The frosty winter of age had come upon him, but in his ruddy cheek and clean-cut face one could see the signs of a hale and vigorous decline. He had greeted us most hospitably, and seemed hugely glad to see Marjory again, whom he had not set eyes on for many a day. We had fallen to supper with keen appetite, for the air of the moors stirs up the sharpest hunger; and now that we had finished we sat around the hall-fire enjoying our few remaining hours of company together. For myself I relished the good fare and the warmth, for Heaven knew when either would be mine again. The high oak-roofed chamber, hung with portraits of Veitches many, was ruddy with fire-light.
Especially the picture in front of the chimney by Vandyke, of that Michael Veitch who died at Philiphaugh, was extraordinarily clear and lifelike. Master Veitch looked often toward it; then he took snuff with a great air of
deliberation, and spoke in his high, kindly old voice.
“My brother seems well to-night, Marjory. I have not seen him look so cheerful for years.” (He had acquired during his solitary life the habit of talking to the picture as if it were some living thing.) “ I can never forgive the Fleming for making Michael hold his blade in so awkward a fashion. Faith, he would have been little the swordsman he was, if he had ever handled sword like that. I can well remember when I was with him at Etzburg, how he engaged in a corner two Hollanders and a Swiss guard, and beat them back till I came up with him and took one off his hands.”
“I have heard of that exploit,” said I. “You must know that I have just come from the Low Countries, where the names of both of you are still often on men’s lips.”
The old man seemed well pleased.
“Ah,” he said, “so you have come from abroad. In what place did you bide, may I enquire?”
“In the town of Leyden,” said I, “for my aim was no more than to acquire learning at the college there. But I foregathered with many excellent Scots gentlemen from whom I heard the talk of the camp and the state.”
“Say you so — Then what do you here — Did you return on the single errand of protecting my fair niece — But stay! I am an old man who cares not much for the chatter of the country, but I have heard — or am I wrong? — that you were not of the true party, but leaned to the Whigs?”
“Nay,” I cried, “I beseech you not to believe it. God knows I am a king’s man out and out, and would see all whigamores in perdition before I would join with them. But fate has brought me into a strange mixture of misfortunes. I land at Leith, expecting nothing save a peaceful homecoming, and lo! I find my cousin waiting with a warrant for my arrest. I am accused of something I am wholly innocent of, but I cannot prove it; nay, there is evidence against me, and my enemies in the Council are all-powerful. Moreover, if I suffer myself to be taken, Marjory is at the mercy of my foes. I take the only course; give the dragoons the slip, and ride straight to Tweeddale, escort her to a house where she will be safe and unknown; and when this is done take to the hills myself with a light heart. They are too ill-set against me for my setting any hope in going to Edinburgh and pleading my case. Was there any other way?”
