by John Buchan
Then I was startled by the noise of approaching steps, and seizing hastily the first volume I could lay hands on, set off for the hills at the top of my speed. The visit had renewed old recollections, and I spent a bitter evening reflecting upon my altered position.
But toward the end of August, when the nights grew longer and the sunsets stormy, a change came over the weather. The Lammas floods first broke the spell of the drought, and for three clear days the rain fell in torrents, while I lay in my hole, cold and shivering. These were days of suffering and hunger, though I shrink from writing of them and have never told them to anyone. On the fourth I made an incursion down to my own lands to the cottage of my ally. There I heard evil news. The soldiers had come oftener than of late and the hunt had been renewed. The reward on my head had been doubled, and with much sorrow I had the news that the miller of Holmes Mill had been taken and carried to Edinburgh. In these dim grey days my courage fell, and it took all the consolations of philosophy, all my breeding and manly upbringing to keep up my heart. Also it became more difficult to go at the three weeks’ end to the cairn on Caerdon with the letter for Marjory.
It was, as far as I remember, for I did not keep good count, on the second day of September, that I set out for Caerdon on my wonted errand. I had had word from Robin Sandilands that the countryside was perilous; but better, I thought, that I should run into danger than that my lady should have any care on my account. So I clapped the written letter in my pocket and set out over the hills in a fine storm of wind.
I went down the little burn of Scrape, which flows into Powsail about a mile above the village of Drummelzier. Had I dared I would have crossed the low lands just above the village, and forded Tweed at Merlin’s Grave, and so won to Caerdon by Rachan and Broughton. But now it behooved me to be cautious, so I kept straight over the hills; and, striking the source of a stream called Hopecarton, followed it to where it joined the river in the Mossfennan haughs. All the time the wind whistled in my teeth and the sharpest of showers bit into my skin. I was soon soaked to the bone, for which I cared very little, but pushed steadfastly on through the rapidly-rising waters of Tweed, and scrambled up the back of the Wormel. Here it was stiff” work, and my legs ached mightily ere I reached the top and flung myself on the damp heather to spy out the Holmes valley.
All seemed quiet. The stream, now changed from its clearness to a muddy brown, was rolling on its way though the fields of stubble. The few houses smoked in peace. The narrow road was empty of travellers. Without hesitation I ran down the slopes, caring not to look circumspectly to the left and right.
I had not run far till something before me brought me to a halt and sent me flat among the grass. Just below the house of Quarter, coming from the cover of the trees, were half a score of soldiers.
My first thought was to turn back and give up the project. My second, to go forward and find a way to cross the valley. Happily the foliage was still there, the heath was still long, the grass was dense: a man might succeed in crossing under cover.
With a beating heart I crawled through the heather to the rushes beside a little stream. This I followed, slowly, painfully, down to the valley, looking sharply at every bare spot, and running for dear life when under cover of bank or brae. By and by I struck the road, and raised myself for a look. All was quiet. There was no sign of any man about, nothing but the beating of the rain and the ceaseless wind. It was possible that they had gone down the vale, and were by this time out of sight. Or maybe they had gone up the water on their way to the moors of Clyde. Or still again they might have gone back to the house of Quarter, which they doubtless loved better than the rainy out-of-doors. In any case they were not there, and nothing hindered me from making a bold sally across the open.
I rose and ran through the corn-field, cleaving my way amid the thick stubble. The heavy moisture clung to my soaked clothes and the sweat ran over my face and neck, but I held straight on till I gained the drystone dyke at the other side and scrambled across it. Here I fell into the stream and was soaked again, but the place was not deep and I was soon through. Now I was direct beneath the house, but somewhat under the cover of the trees; and still there was no sign of man and beast. I began to think that after all my eyes had deceived me, and taken newt for dragoons. Such a trick was not impossible; I had found it happen before at the winter’s shooting. With this pleasing hope I straightened my back and ran more boldly up the planting’s side till I gained the moorlands above. Here I paused for a second to enjoy my success and look back upon the house.
Suddenly something cracked in the thicket, and a voice behind me cried, “Stop. Gang another step and I fire.” So the cup of safety was dashed from my lips at the very moment of tasting it.
I did not obey, but dashed forward to the high moors with all my speed. It was conceivable that the men were unmounted and their horses stabled, in which case I might get something of a lead. If not, I should very soon know by the clear convincing proof of a shot in my body.
My guess was right, and it was some little time ere I heard the cries of pursuers behind me. I had made straight for the top of the ridge where the ground was rough for horses, and I knew that they could not follow me with any speed. I was ave a swift runner, having been made long and thin in the shanks and somewhat deep-chested. I had often raced on the lawn at Barns with my cousin for some trifling prize. Now I ran with him again, but for the prize of my own life.
I cannot tell of that race, and to this day the thought of it makes my breath go faster. I only know that I leaped and stumbled and ploughed my way over the hillside, sobbing with weariness and with my heart almost bursting; my ribs. I never once looked behind, but I could measure the distance by the sound of their cries. The great, calm face of Caerdon was always before me, mocking my hurry and feebleness. If I could but gain the ridge of it, I might find safety in one of the deep gullies. Now I had hope, now I had lost it and given myself up for as good as dead. But still I kept on, being unwilling that anyone should see me yield, and resolving that if I needs must die I would stave it off as long as might be.
In the end, after hours — or was it minutes? — I reached the crest and crawled down the other side. They were still some distance behind and labouring heavily. Near me was a little ravine down which a slender trickle of flood-water fell in a long cascade. I plunged down it, and coming to a shelter of overlapping rock crawled far in below, and thanked God for my present safety.
Then I remembered my errand and my letter. I clapped my hand to my pocket to draw it forth. The place was empty — the letter was gone. With a sickening horror I reflected that I had dropped it as I ran, and that my enemies must have found it.
XIV. — I FALL IN WITH STRANGE FRIENDS
I LAY there, still with fright and anxiety, while the wind roared around my hiding-place, and the noise of the horses’ feet came to my ears. My first thought was to rush out and meet them, engage the company and get the letter back by force. But a moment’s reflection convinced me that this was equal to rushing on my death. There was nothing for it but to bide where I was, and pray that I might not be discovered.
The noise grew louder, and the harsh voices of the men echoed in the little glen. I lay sweating with fear and I know not what foreboding, as I heard the clatter of hooves among the slates and the heavy tread of those who had dismounted and were searching every tuft of heather. I know not to this day how I escaped. It may be that their eves were blinded with mist and rain; it may be that my hiding-place was securer than I thought, for God knows I had no time to choose it; it may be that their search was but perfunctory, since they had got the letter; it may be that they thought in their hearts that I had escaped over the back of Caerdon and searched only to satisfy their leader. At any rate, in a little all was still, save for the sound of distant voices, and with vast caution and great stiffness of body I drew myself from the hole.
I have rarely felt more utterly helpless and downcast. I had saved my skin, but only by a hairbreadth,
and in the saving of it I had put the match to my fortunes. For that luckless letter gave the man into whose hands it might fall a clue to Marjory’s whereabouts. It is true that the thing was slight, but still it was there, and ‘twas but a matter of time till it was unravelled. All was up with me. Now that I was thus isolated on Caerdon and the far western ridges of the Tweedside hills I could have little hope of getting free, for to return to safety I must cross either Holmes Water, which was guarded like a street, or the lower Tweed, which, apart from the fact that it was in roaring flood, could no more be passed by me than the gates of Edinburgh. But I give my word it was not this that vexed me; nay, I looked forward to danger, even to capture, with something akin to hope. But the gnawing anxiety gripped me by the throat that once more my poor lass would be exposed to the amenities of my cousin, and her easy, quiet life at Smitwood shattered forever. An unreasoning fit of rage took me, and I dashed my foot on the heather in my hopeless vexation. I cursed every soldier, and damned Gilbert to the blackest torments which my heart could conjure.
But rage, at the best, is vain and I soon ceased. It was indeed high time that I should be bestirring myself. I could not stay where I was, for in addition to being without food or decent shelter, I was there on the very confines of the most dangerous country. Not two miles to the north from the place where I lay the hills ceased, and the low-lying central moorlands succeeded, which, as being a great haunt of the more virulent Whigs, were watched by many bands of dragoons. If my life were to be saved I must get back once more to the wild heights of the upper Tweed.
I climbed the gully and, keeping lower down the hill, made for the mountain, named Coulter Fell, which is adjacent to Caerdon. I know not why I went this way, save through a fantastic idea of getting to the very head of the Holmes Water and crossing there. Every step I took led me into more perilous ground, for it took me farther to the westward. It was my sole chance, and in the teeth of the wind I wrestled on over the long heather and grey sklidders, slipping and stumbling with weariness and dispirit. Indeed I know not if anything could have sustained me save the motto of my house, which came always to my mind. Virescit vulnere virtus! The old proud saw cheered my heart wondrously. I shall not shame my kin, said I to myself; it shall never be said that misfortune did aught to one of my name save raise his valour.
When I reached the head of the ridge I thought that the way was clear before me and that I had outdistanced my pursuers. I stood up boldly on the summit and looked down on the Holmes Water head. The next minute I had flung myself flat again and was hastening to retrace my steps. For this was what I saw. All up the stream at irregular intervals dragoons were beating the heather in their quest for me. Clearly they thought that I had made for the low ground. Clearly, also, there was no hope of escape in that quarter.
With a heavy heart I held along the bald face of the great Coulter Fell. I know no more heartless mountain on earth than that great black scarp, which on that day flung its head far up into the mist. The storm, if anything, had increased in fury. Every now and then there came a burst of sharp hail, and I was fain to shelter for a moment by lying on the earth. Very circumspectly I went, for I knew not when through the wall of mist a gleam of buff” coats or steel might meet me. In such a fashion, half-creeping, half running, I made my way down the hills which flank the Coulter Water, and came at length to the range of low hills which look down upon Biggar and the lowlands of Clyde.
I struggled to the top and looked over into the misty haughs. The day was thick, yet not so thick that I could not see from this little elevation the plain features of the land below. I saw the tall trees of Coulter House and the grey walls and smoking chimney. Beyond was the road, thick in mud, and with scarce a traveller. All seemed quiet, and as I looked a wild plan came into my head. Why should I not go through the very den of the lion — What hindered me from going down by the marsh of Biggar and the woods of Rachan, and thence to my hiding-place — It was the high roads that were unwatched in these days, and the byways which had each their sentinel.
But as I looked again the plan passed from my mind. For there below, just issuing from the gateway of Coulter House, I saw a man on horseback, and another, and still another. I needed no more. A glance was sufficient to tell me their character and purport. Gilbert verily had used his brains to better advantage than I had ever dreamed of. He had fairly outwitted me, and the three airts of north and south and west were closed against me.
There still remained the east, and thither I turned. I was shut in on a triangle of hill and moorland, some three miles in length and two in breadth. At the east was the spur of hill at the foot of the Holmes Water and above the house of Rachan. If I went thither I might succeed in crossing the breadth of the valley and win to the higher hills. It was but a chance, and in my present weakness I would as soon have laid me down on the wet earth and gone to sleep. But I forced myself to go on, and once more I battled with the snell weather.
I do not very well remember how I crossed the Kilbucho glen, and stumbled through the maze of little streams and sheep drains which cover all the place. I had no more stomach for the work than an old dog has for coursing. To myself I could give no reason for my conduct save a sort of obstinacy which would not let me give in. At a place called Blendewing I lay down on my face and drank pints of water from the burn — a foolish action, which in my present condition was like to prove dangerous. In the pine-wood at the back of the shieling I laid me down for a little to rest, and when once more I forced myself to go on, I was as stiff as a ship’s figure-head. In this state I climbed the little hills which line the burn, and came to the limit of the range above the place called Whiteslade.
It was now about two o’clock in the afternoon, and the storm, so far from abating, grew every moment in fierceness. I began to go hot and cold all over alternately, and the mist-covered hills were all blurred to my sight like a boy’s slate. Now, by Heaven, thought I, things are coming at last to a crisis. I shall either die in a bog-hole, or fall into my cousin’s hands before this day is over. A strange perverted joy took possession of me. I had nothing now to lose, my fortunes were so low that they could sink no farther; I had no cause to dread either soldier or weather. And then my poor silly head began to whirl, and I lost all power of anticipation.
To this day I do not know how I crossed the foot of the Holmes valley — for this was what I did. The place was watched most jealously, for Holmes Mill was there, and the junction of the roads to the upper Tweed and the moors of Clyde. But the thing was achieved, and my next clear remembrance is one of crawling painfully among the low birk trees and cliffs on the far side of the Wormel. My knees and hands were bleeding, and I had a pain in my head so terrible that I forgot all other troubles in this supreme one.
It was now drawing towards evening. The grey rain-clouds had become darker and the shadows crept over the sodden hills. All the world was desert to me, where there was no shelter. Dawyck and Barns were in the hands of the enemy. The cave of the Cor Water was no more. I had scarce strength to reach my old hiding-place in the hags above Scrape, and if I did get there I had not the power to make it habitable. A gravelled and sanded couch with a heathery roof is pleasant enough in the dry weather, but in winter it is no better than a bog-hole.
Nevertheless I slid down the hill as best I could and set myself to crossing the valley. It was half-filled with water pools which the flood had left, and at the far side I saw the red, raging stream of Tweed. I remember wondering without interest whether I should ever win over or drown there. It was a matter of little moment to me. The fates had no further power to vex me.
But ere I reached the hill-foot I saw something which gave me pause, reckless though I had come to be. On the one hand there was a glimpse of men coming up the valley — mounted men, riding orderly as in a troop. On the other I saw scattered soldiers dispersing over the haughland. The thought was borne in upon me that I was cut off at last from all hope of escape. I received the tidings with no fear, scarcely with
surprise. My sickness had so much got the better of me that though the heavens had opened I would not have turned my head to them. But I still staggered on, blindly, nervelessly, wondering in my heart how long I would keep on my feet.
But now in the little hollow I saw something before me, a glimpse of light, and faces lit by the glow. I felt instinctively the near presence of men. Stumbling towards it I went, groping my way as if I were blindfold. Then some great darkness came over my brain and I sank on the ground.
XV. — THE BAILLIES OF NO MAN’s LAND
THE NEXT period in my life lies still in my mind like a dream. I have a remembrance of awaking and an impression of light, and strange faces, and then all was dark again. Of those days my memory is a blank; there Is nothing but a medley of sickness and weariness, light and blackness, and the wild phantoms of a sick man’s visions.
When I first awoke to clear consciousness, it was towards evening in a wild glen just below the Devil’s Beef Tub at the head of the Annan. I had no knowledge where I was. All that I saw was a crowd of men and women around me, a fire burning and a great pot hissing thereon. All that I heard was a babel of every noise, from the discordant cries of men to the yelping of a pack of curs. I was lying on a very soft couch made of skins and cloaks in the shade of a little roughly-made tent. Beyond I could see the bare hillsides rising shoulder on shoulder, and the sting of air on my cheek told me that it was freezing hard. But I was not cold, for the roaring fire made the place warm as a baker’s oven.
I lay still and wondered, casting my mind over all the events of the past that I could remember. I was still giddy in the head, and the effort made me close my eyes with weariness. Try as I would I could think of nothing beyond my parting from Marjory at Smitwood. All the events of my wanderings for the moment had gone from my mind.
