by John Buchan
I had never seen the soldiers before, but I made a guess that they were disbanded men of my cousin’s company, both from their air of exceeding braggadocio which clung to all who had any relation to Gilbert Burnet, and also since there were no soldiers in this special part of the Clyde dale save his. I was in no temper for such a racket, and had there been another room in the house I should have sought it; but the inn was small and little frequented, and the accommodation narrow at the best. However, I must needs make the most of it, so shutting the door behind I sought a retired corner seat. I was still worn with my exertions of yesterday and weary with long riding, so I was blithe to get my limbs at rest.
But it was clear that three-fourths of the company were in the last state of drunkenness, and since men in liquor can never let well alone, they must needs begin to meddle with me.
“Gidden,” said one, “what kind o’ gentleman hae we here — I havena seen sic a fellow sin’ yon steeple-jaick at Brochtoun Fair. D’ye think he wad be willin’ to gie us a bit entertainment?”
Now you must remember that I still wore my suit of torn and dirty crimson, and with my stained face and long hair I must have cut a rare figure.
But had the thing gone no further than words I should never have stirred a finger in the matter, for when a man’s energies are all bent upon some great quarrel, he has little stomach for lesser bickerings. But now one arose in a drunken frolic, staggered over to where I sat, and plucked me rudely by the arm. “Come ower,” he said, “my man, and let’sh see ye dance the ‘Nancy kilt her Coats.’ You see here twelve honest sodgers whae will gie ye a penny a piece for the ploy.”
“Keep your hands off,” I said brusquely, “and hold your tongue. ‘Twill be you that will do the dancing soon at the end of a tow on the castle hill, when King William plays the fiddle. You’ll be brisker lads then.”
“What,” said he in a second, with drunken gravity. “Do I hear you shpeak treason against his majesty King James — Dod, I’ll learn ye better.” And he tugged at his sword, but being unable in his present state to draw it with comfort, he struck me a hard thwack over the shoulder, scabbard and all.
In a moment I was ablaze with passion. I flung myself on the fellow, and with one buffet sent him rolling below the table. Then I was ashamed for myself, for a drunken man is no more fit for an honest blow than a babe or a woman.
But there was no time for shame or aught save action. Three men — the only three who were able to understand the turn of affairs — rose to their feet in a trice, and with drawn swords came towards me. The others sat stupidly staring, save two who had fallen asleep and rolled from their seats.
I picked up my chair, which was broad and heavy and of excellent stout oak, and held it before me like a shield. I received the first man’s awkward lunge full on it, and, thrusting it forward, struck him fair above the elbow, while his blade fell with a clatter on the floor. Meantime the others were attacking me to the best of their power, and though they were singly feeble, yet in their very folly they were more dangerous than a mettlesome opponent, who will keep always in front and observe well the rules of the game. Indeed, it might have gone hard with me had not the door been flung violently open and the landlord entered, wringing his hands and beseeching, and close at his heels another man, very tall and thin and dark. At the sight of this second my heart gave a great bound and I cried aloud in delight. For it was my servant Nicol.
In less time than it takes to write it we had disarmed the drunken ruffians and reduced them to order. And, indeed, the task was not a hard one, for they were a vast deal more eager to sleep than to fight, and soon sank to their fitting places on the floor. Forbye they may have had some gleam of sense, and seen how perilous was their conduct in the present regiment of affairs. Then Nicol, who was an old acquaintance of the host’s, led me to another room in the back of the house, where we were left in peace; and sitting by the fire told one another some fragment of our tales.
And first for his own, for I would speak not a word till he had told me all there was to tell. He had had much ado to get to Caerdon, for the hills were thick with the military, and at that wild season of the year there is little cover. When he found no letter he set off for the hiding-place above Scrape, where he knew I had been, and found it deserted. Thence he had shaped his way again to Smitwood with infinite labour and told Marjory the fruit of his errand. At this her grief had been so excessive that nothing would content her but that he must be off again and learn by hook or crook some word of my whereabouts. So began his wanderings among the hills, often attended with danger and always with hardship, but no trace of me could he find. At last, somewhere about the Moffat Water, he had forgathered with a single tinker whom he had once befriended in the old days when he had yet power to help. From this man he had learned that the Baillies had with them one whom he did not know for certain, but shrewdly guessed as the laird of Barns. With all speed he had set off on this new quest and followed me in my journey right to the moss of Biggar. Here all signs of the band came to an end, for most of the folk of the place knew naught of the airt of the gipsy flight, and such as knew were loth to tell, being little in a mood to incur the Baillies’ wrath. So naught was left for him but to return to the place whence he had started. Here he was met with the bitter news that I have already set down. He was thrown into a state of utter despondency, and sat for long in a fine confusion of mind. Then he fell to reasoning. There was no place whither Gilbert could take a woman save his own house of Eaglesham, for Dawyck and Barns were too near the hills and myself. You must remember that at this time my servant had no inkling of the momentous event which had set our positions upside down. Now, if they took her to the west they would do so with all speed; they had but one day’s start; he might yet overtake them, and try if his wits could find no way out of the difficulty.
So off he set and came to this inn of the Clyde fords, and then he heard that on the evening before such a cavalcade had passed as he sought. But he learned something more the next morn; namely, that my cousin’s power was wholly broken and that now I was freed from all suspicion of danger. Once more he fell into a confusion, but the one thing clear was that he must find me at all costs. He had heard of me last at the town of Biggar not fifteen miles off; when I heard the great news he guessed that I would ride straight for Smitwood; I would hear the tidings that the folk there had to tell, and, if he knew aught of me, I would ride straight, as he had done, on the track of the fugitives. So he turned back to the inn, and abode there awaiting me, and, lo! at nightfall I had come.
Then for long we spoke of my own wanderings, :and I told him many tales of my doings and sufferings up hill and down dale, as did Ulysses to the Ithacan swineherd. But ere long we fell to discussing that far more momentous task which lay before us. It behooved us to be up and doing, for I had a horrid fear at my heart that my cousin might seek to reach the western seacoast and escape to France or Ireland, and thus sorely hinder my meeting with my love. I had no fear but that I should overtake him sooner or later, for fate had driven that lesson deep into my heart, and to myself I said that it was but a matter of days, or weeks, or maybe years, but not of failure. I was for posting on even at that late hour, but Nicol would have none of it.
“Look at your face i’ the gless, sir,” said he, “and tell me if ye look like muckle mair ridin’ the day. Ye’ re fair forwandered wi’ weariness and want o’ sleep. And what for wad ye keep thae queer-like claes — I’ll get ye a new suit frae the landlord, decent man, and mak ye mair presentable for gaun intil the Wast.”
I looked as he bade me in the low mirror, and saw my dark face, and wind-tossed hair, and my clothes of flaming crimson. Something in the odd contrast struck my fancy.
“Nay,” I said, grimly, “I will bide as I am. I am going on a grim errand and I will not lay aside these rags till I have done that which I went for to do.”
“Weel, weel, please yersel’,” said my servant, jauntily, and he turned away, whistling and smiling to
himself.
II. — AN OLD JOURNEY WITH A NEW ERRAND
I SLEPT like a log till the broad daylight on the next morn woke me, and with all speed I got up and dressed. I found myself much refreshed in body. My weariness was gone, and the dull languor which had oppressed me had given place to a singular freshness of spirit.
When I went below I found my servant ready and waiting, with the horses saddled and my meal prepared. The soldiers had gone early, paying no score; for when their liquor had left them they had wakened up to the solemn conviction that this countryside was not like to be a pleasant habitation for them for many months to come. So they had gone off to Heaven knows where, cutting my bridle-rein as a last token of their affection.
It was near ten o’clock ere we started, the two of us, on our road to the West. I had travelled it many times, for it was the way to Glasgow, and I found myself calling up, whether I would or no, a thousand half-sad and half-pleasing memories. At this place I had stopped to water my horse, at this cottage I had halted for an hour, at this hostel I had lain the night. Had I not looked at my comrade every now and then, I might have fancied that I was still the schoolboy, with his wide interest in letters and life, and little knowledge of either, with half a dozen letters in his pocket, looking forward with fear and hope to town and college. Heigh-ho! Many things had come and gone since then, and here was I still the same boy, but ah! how tossed and buffeted and perplexed. Yet I would not have bartered my present state for those careless and joyous years, for after all this is a rugged world, with God knows how many sore straits and devilish temptations, but with so many fair and valiant rewards, that a man is a coward indeed who would not battle through the one for the sweet sake of the other.
As we went Nicol talked of many things with a cheery good humour. His was an adventure-loving mind, and there were few things which he would not brave save the routine of settled life. Now, as the November sun came out, for the morn was frosty and clear, his face shone with the sharp air and the excitement of the ride, and he entertained me to his views on the world and the things in it. The ground was hard as steel underfoot, the horse’s hooves crackled through the little ice-coated pools in the road, and a solitary thrush sang its song from a wayside wood and seemed like a silver trump calling to action and daring.
“What think ye o’ the hills, Laird?” said my servant. “Ye’ve been lang among them, and ye’ ll ken them noo in anither way than if ye had just trampit ower them after wild-jucks or ridden through them to Yarrow or Moffatdale. I’ve wandered among them since I was a laddie five ‘ear auld, and used to gang oot wi’ my faither to the herdin’. And since then I’ve traivelled up Tweed and doun Tweed, and a’ ower the Clydeside and the Annanside, no to speak o’ furrin pairts, and I can weel say that I ken naucht sae awfu’ and sae kindly, sae couthy and bonny and hamely, and, at the same time, sae cauld and cruel, as juist thae green hills and muirs.”
“You speak truly,” said I. “I’ve seen them in all weathers and I know well what you mean.”
“Ay,” he went on, “thae lawlands are very bonny, wi’ the laigh meadows, and bosky trees and waters as still as a mill-pound. And if ye come doun frae the high bare lands ye think them fair like Heev’n. But I canna bide lang there. I aye turn fair sick for the smell o’ moss and heather, and the roarin’ and routin’ o’ the burn, and the air sae clear and snell that it gars your face prick and your legs and airms strauchten oot, till ye think ye could run frae here to the Heads o’ Ayr.”
“I know all of that,” said I, “and more.”
“Ay, there’s far mair,” said he. “There’s the sleepin’ at nicht on the grund wi’ naething abune you but the stars, and waukin’ i’ the mornin’ wi’ the birds singin’ i’ your lug and the wind blawin’ cool and free around you. I ken a’ that and I ken the ither, when the mist crowds low on the tap o’ the hills and the rain dreeps and seeps, or when the snaw comes and drifts sae thick that ye canna stand afore it, and there’s life neither for man nor beast. Yet wi’ it a’ I like it, and if I micht choose the place I wad like best to dee in, it would be in the lee side o’ a muckle hill, wi’ nae death-bed or sic like havers, but juist to gang straucht to my Makker frae the yirth I had aye traivelled on. But wha kens?” and he spurred up his horse.
“Nicol,” said I, after a long silence, “you know the errand we go on. I have told you it, I think. It is to find my cousin and Mistress Marjory. If God grant that we do so, then these are my orders. You shall take the lady home to Tweeddale, to Dawyck, which is her own, and leave me behind you. I may come back or I may not. If I do, all will be well. If I do not, you know your duty. You have already fulfilled it for some little time; if it happens as I say, you shall continue it to death. The lass will have no other protector than yourself.”
“E’en as ye say,” cried he, resuming his hilarity, though whether it was real or no I cannot tell. “But dinna crack aboot siccan things. Laird, or ye’ll be makkin’ our journey nae better than buryin’. It’s a wanchancy thing to speak aboot death. No that a man should be feared at it, but that he should keep a calm sough till it come. Ye mind the story o’ auld Tam Blacket, the writer at Peebles. Tam was deein’, and as he was a guid auld man the minister, whae wes great at death-beds and consolation, cam to speak to him aboot his latter end. ‘Ye’re near death, Tammas,’ says he. Up gets auld Tam. ‘I’ll thank ye no to mention that subject,’ he says, and never a word wad he allow the puir man to speak.”
So in this way we talked till we came to where the road leaves the Clyde valley and rises steep to the high land about the town of Hamilton. Here we alighted for dinner at an inn which bears for its sign the Ship of War, though what this means in a town many miles from the sea I do not know. Here we had a most excellent meal, over which we did not tarry long, for we sought to reach Glasgow ere nightfall, and at that season of the year the day closes early.
As we rode down the narrow, crooked street, I had leisure to look about me. The town was in a ferment, for, as near the field of Bothwell Brig, where the Whigs had suffered their chiefest slaughter, it had been well garrisoned with soldiers, and the news of the Prince of Orange’s landing put the place into an uproar. Men with flushed, eager faces hurried past with wonder writ large on their cheeks; others stood about in knots talking shrilly; and every now and then a horseman would push his way through the crowd bearing fresh tidings to the townsfolk or carrying it thence to the West country.
Suddenly, in the throng of men, I saw a face which brought me to a standstill. It was that of a man, dark, sullen, and foreign-looking, whose former dragoon’s dress a countryman’s coat poorly concealed. He was pushing his way eagerly through the crowd, when he looked into the mid-street and caught my eye. In an instant he had dived into one of the narrow closes and was lost to sight.
At the first glance I knew my man for that soldier of Gilbert’s, Jan Hamman, the Hollander, whom already thrice I had met, once in the Alphen Road, once at the joining of the Cor Water with Tweed, and once at the caves of the Cor, when so many of His Majesty’s servants went to their account. What he was about in this West country I could not think, for had he been wise he would have made for the eastern seacoast or at least not ventured into this stronghold of those he had persecuted. And with the thought another came. Had not he spoken bitterly of his commander — was he not the victim of one of my fair cousin’s many infamies — had he not, in my own hearing, sworn vengeance — Gilbert had more foes than one on his track, for here was this man, darkly malevolent, dogging him in his flight. The thought flashed upon me that he of all men would know my cousin’s plans and would aid me in my search. I did not for a moment desire him for an ally in my work; nay, I should first frustrate his designs, before I settled matters with Gilbert, for it was in the highest degree unseemly that any such villain should meddle in matters which belonged solely to our house. Still I should use him for my own ends, come what might.
I leaped from my horse, crying on Nicol to take charge of it, and da
shed up the narrow entry. I had just a glimpse of a figure vanishing round the far corner, and when I had picked my way, stumbling over countless obstacles, I found at the end an open court, roughly paved with cobble-stones, and beyond that a high wall. With all my might I made a great leap and caught the top, and lo! I looked over into a narrow lane wherein children were playing. It was clear that my man had gone by this road, and would now be mixed among the folk in the side street. It was useless to follow further, so in some chagrin I retraced my steps, banning Nicol and the Dutchman and my own ill-luck.
I remounted, making no answer to my servant’s sarcastic condolences — for, of course, he had no knowledge of this fellow’s purport in coming to the Westlands, and could only look on my conduct as a whimsical freak. As we passed down the street I kept a shrewd lookout to right and left if haply I might see my man, but no such good luck visited me. Once out of the town it behooved us to make better speed, for little of the afternoon remained, and dusk at this time of year fell sharp and sudden. So with a great jingling and bravado we clattered through the little hamlets of Blantyre and Cambusland, and came just at the darkening to the populous burgh of Rutherglen, which, saving that it has no college or abbey, is a more bustling and prosperous place than Glasgow itself. But here we did not stay, being eager to win to our journey’s end; so after a glass of wine at an inn we took the path through the now dusky meadows by Clyde side, and passing through the village of Gorbals, which lies on the south bank of the river, we crossed the great bridge and entered the gates just as they were on the point of closing.
During the latter hours of the day I had gone over again in mind all the details of the doings of past weeks. All seemed now clear, and with great heartiness I cursed myself for errors, which I could scarce have refrained from. The steps in Gilbert’s plan lay before me one by one. The letter had given him only the slightest of clues, which he must have taken weeks to discover. When at last it had been made clear to him, something else had engaged his mind. He must have had word from private sources, shut to the country folk, of the way whither events were trending in the state. His mind was made up; he would make one desperate bid for success; and thus he shaped his course. He sent men to Smitwood with the plausible story which I had already heard from my servant, how all breach was healed between us, and how this was her escort to take her to me. Then I doubted not he had bidden the men show her as proof some letter forged in my name on the model of the one I had lost on Caerdon, and also give her some slight hint of the great change in the country to convince her that now he could do no ill even had he desired it, and that I was now on the summit of fortune. The poor lass, wearied with anxiety and long delay, and with no wise Nicol at hand to give better counsel, had suffered herself to be persuaded, and left the house with a glad heart. I pictured her disillusion, her bitter regrets, her unwilling flight. And then I swore with redoubled vehemence that it should not be for long.
