Complete Fictional Works of John Buchan (Illustrated)

by John Buchan

  “I swear,” he said, his hand shaking like a leaf as it touched her slender wrist.

  “Now you had better leave me,” she said. “Maybe I have done wrong. I am but a weak woman, and the heart should be steeled for the high business which presses on the land. Yet you have sworn, and I have given you my trust. If you will come to-morrow morning you will learn my bidding.”

  BOOK TWO

  CHAPTER VIII. The Journey to the North.

  In the autumn dusk Mr. Francis Birkenshaw rode down a path of mountain gravel into the glen of a little stream. Behind him were the flat meadows of his own country, with coiling waters and towns smoking in woody hollows. The sea lined the horizon with a gleam as of steel; and, fretted faintly against hillside and sky, all but vanishing into the evening haze, rose the spires and turrets of the city he had left. From the prosperous cornfields five miles back the way had risen slowly to the crest of a ridge, whence it turned sharply down to a cavernous mountain vale, which seemed to lead sheer into the heart of a gloomy land. All about were acres of dark hills, ribbed, curved, and channelled by myriad water-courses, forcing sharp peaks into the sunset or falling back in dismal lines to the east and north. Down the affronting cleft a storm was coming, and even as he looked it burst upon him, and he was cloaked in mist and rain.

  He had ridden hard from Edinburgh since the early morn with the speed of a zealous messenger. On the day before, when he had gone to the Murrays’ lodging, he had been tried with many questions, and then trusted with a message which even he, all untrained in the arts of war, knew to be of high import. His courage had all but failed him; he had stammered modest excuses; and then, heartened by bright eyes and brave words, accepted his commission with diffident if resolute purpose. With a smile and a face in his memory he had ridden out on the morning of this day into the new world for him but two nights old. Never before had he felt such lightness of heart. The September sunrise had been a masque of purple and gold, the clear air a divine ether. Once more he had found a standing-ground from which to view the world; he could look frankly in each passer’s eyes; and behind all was a woman’s face in the gallery of his heart to comfort his travelling.

  The thought of the complexity and peril of his mission was scarcely present. That was still in the far future. Meantime there was the fervour of hope recovered, a fervour still stung at intervals by flickers of old pride, and stronger still the half-pharisaic feeling which springs from a dawning virtue. He had no thoughts; the tumult of his feelings left no space for the clearer emotions. But the sense of wild adventure was strong upon him. He was venturing on an errand of war into a land as little known to him as the steppes of Tartary. And the eternal memory of the lady freshened his fancy till youth returned once more to the broken man who had two days before been at the feet of fate. So with blithe heart he crossed the Firth by the Alloa ferry, where sea breeze and land breeze strive with the widening river, and took his path for the wall of mystic northern hills.

  But now, as a darker country closed in on him, the strangeness began to weigh on his spirits. He was lowland bred, and, with all his boasted experience, a traveller within but narrow limits. Moors he knew, the soft comely deserts which line Yarrow and Tweed and break ever into green vales and a land of meadows. But this was something new, — this everlasting bleak land, where God’s hand seemed to have placed no order. The stormy afternoon made the sight wilder, and all around him birds cried so constantly and so shrilly that the wilderness seemed to have taken to itself a voice. But soon his natural ardour rose triumphant to the influence of weather. All was but part of this new course, instinct with fierce adventure, a list for the conquest of haughty hearts. As the cold of evening grew, and heavy shadows fell on his path, he exulted in the mystery of his errand. He saw the long hillsides on either hand, grey with banks of rock and rough with birken tangles, down which at times came the cry of a fox or the cruel scream of a hawk. Little lochs were passed, framed in the ebony of black bogs or edged with dolorous rushes. All was strange, uncanny; and as he looked keenly for the light which should tell him of his journey’s end and relief from the craggy path, he felt the joy of the crusader, the wanderer on a reputable errand.

  But somewhere on the high hills a storm had gathered, and hurrying from mist-filled tarns choked the strait glens with sleet. It caught the traveller full in the face, and in a trice had him soaked to the bone. This was all that was needed to give the final exhilaration to his spirits. Gaily he urged his horse, wrapping his cloak about his shoulders and lowering his head to bide the brunt. It stung his face to fire, and sent the blood coursing through every vein. The man gloried in his strength. He cried defiance to all powers of weather, and thought lovingly on himself in this rôle of doughty knight-errant. Then through the sheer-falling water a light gleamed, all rayed like a star through the sleety veil; the way grew smoother; and Francis was aware of his lodging for the night.

  Ere he had dismounted and stretched his legs, a throng of all ages and descriptions with lights of many sizes gathered about him. The place was small and the door narrow, and in contrast with the sharp out-of-doors the air smelled hot and close. Dazed like an owl, he stumbled down two steps into a wide low room, where some dozen men sat drinking round the fire or eating supper at a table. A fire of peat burned in the middle and the air was thick with a blue smoke, which gusts from a broken window were ever blowing aside. The inmates were all in Highland dress, save one man who was still at supper, — a florid and stout gentleman of middle age in knee-breeches and a dark-blue coat. Room was made for Francis on the settle by his side, and a meal placed before him.

  With keen appetite he fell to his supper, looking often and curiously at his companions. The place reeked of food and drink and generous living. In a corner stood a great anker of whisky with a spigot, whence the Highlanders replenished their glasses. A barrel of sugar with a small spade in it was by its side, and on the peats the water boiled for toddy. It was a good lodging for men who were fresh from wild, cold journeying, for such had no mind to mark the filth which was everywhere, the slatternly look of the maids, the exceeding dirtiness of the company. The Highlanders were all tall men, with gaunt dark faces and ragged tartans. One of them, smaller in stature, wore the trews instead of the kilt and seemed a thought more decent and presentable. They talked rapidly among themselves in Gaelic, and ever and again one would raise a catch, while the whole motley crew would join in. It was with some relief that Francis turned from watching them to the comfortable figure at his side. He caught the man’s eye, and they gravely gave each other good-evening. Clearly he was a person of consequence, for his dress was good, and his rosy face had the tight lips and clean chin of the man used to give orders and be obeyed.

  “It’s a coarse day for a journey, sir,” said he. “Ye’ll be going south to Edinburgh?”

  “Even so,” said Francis, “and I hope to have the pleasure of your convoy on the road to-morrow.” This personage had the look of a Whig, and there was no need to enlighten him.

  “I am at your service,” said the elder man, with a twinkling eye. Francis caught the twinkle and put a stricter bridle upon his tongue.

  “I hear,” said he again, “that there are stirring times in Edinburgh. We country folk in the north hear nocht of a thing till it’s bye.”

  Francis saw the guile and checked the natural desire of the well informed to make a present of his knowledge to every inquirer. “I’ve heard something like it,” he said, “but we’ll not be long in hearing the truth. How long do you call in from here to the town?”

  The other’s rosy cheeks grew rosier with suppressed amusement. “That was the very question I was on the point of asking you myself,” he said. “But go on with your supper, sir, and do not let me hinder a hungry man.”

  Francis ate with sidelong glances at his companion, who had lit a short pipe and smoked vigorously. Once and again he met his eyes, and both smiled. Truly this game of hide and seek was becoming amusing. Then he fell to study
ing the image of the man’s looks as pictured in memory. Some hint of a likeness struck him; these lineaments, that figure, were known to him. Carefully he traced the web of his recollections, but could find no thread. Doubtless he had seen him in the old Edinburgh days, but where? when? He had all but finished his meal when a sudden lift of his comrade’s arm, a motion to set right his cravat, furnished the key to the mystery. He had mind of days in the Parliament House, when he, the lawyer’s clerk, took notes and papers to the great lawyers. Softly he whistled to himself, blinking with amazement. The Lord President! So far, so good; he had the advantage of his companion; doubtless the famous Mr. Duncan Forbes had no wish to be recognised in this Highland tavern.

  “It’s a wild night,” said Francis. “Had ye a hard day’s riding?”

  “Dub and mire,” said the other. “Ye’re splashed yourself, so ye ken the state of the roads.”

  “I think I had a glisk of ye five mile back at the bridge-end,” hazarded the bold Francis.

  “Maybe so. I had a mettle beast, and took the road well.”

  “Ay,” said Francis, meditatively, “it’s a lang dreary road to Culloden,” and he looked innocently at his neighbour.

  The man raised his eyebrows a trifle and bowed. “It appears,” he said, “that my name and designation are better kenned in the land than I had thought. Ye have the advantage of me, Mr. — —”

  “Robertson,” said the other. “Mr. George Robertson, merchant in the Pleasaunce of Edinburgh, returning from transacting some business in the north.”

  Francis had overshot himself, and the man smiled. “I am at your service, Mr. Robertson of the Pleasaunce. Your name and trade do credit to your honesty and your own pretty fancy,” and with a sly glance he knocked the ashes from his pipe.

  The ground was dangerous, and Francis sheered away. Moreover, the rest of the company were fast approaching the state of maudlin good-fellowship which follows the pugnacious. The smell of hot drink was grateful in his nostrils after the bitter wind, and he was in a cheerful mood at the discomfiture of his neighbour. He filled a great jug with the piping spirits, and drank deeply to some chance toast. The stuff was raw but fiery, and it sensibly quickened his vivacity. Memories came back of old tavern nights in his boyhood. The smell of the place, the uproarious company fostered the impression, and for a little rough hilarity seemed the extreme of joy. The man’s mind was elated by the day’s ride, and still more by the sudden rebound from black despair. His animal boisterousness, always at hand in his nature, was beginning to assert itself under the influence of keen air and this northern whisky. He filled Mr. Forbes’s glass till the rosy gentleman cried a truce, and toasted him with clinking bowls. Then he grew friendly with the others at the table. The little man in the trews made the first overtures to friendship by coming over to the pair, bowing with profound if drunken gravity, and asking them for their commands. Francis received him as a brother, and ere he knew, found himself singing riotously among the ragged Highlanders. Toasts in Gaelic were drunk with such generous frequency that Mr. Francis Birkenshaw, who had not been drunk above three times in his previous life, who had only that morn been a very storehouse of high sentiments, who was even now pluming himself on a diplomatist’s wisdom, became gloriously drunk.

  It is the nemesis of a vagrant youth that when at a later time the keynote is struck of some one of these youthful follies the maturer nature instinctively responds. The mere flavour of good-fellowship had brought him to a condition of which he would have been heartily ashamed even in his earliest lawlessness. Once more he was the vicious boy; his tongue was loosed, and he drew from the rich storehouse of his former experience. Soon the wild talk of the company had been raised to a pitch of indecent blasphemy which before it had wholly failed to attain; and the Highlanders, imperfect as was their English, looked with awe and reverence on this young spirit whose speech was even as the common sewer. Gaelic and English alternating filled the place with a din like Bedlam, while ever and anon some loyalist sentiment gave a chance for maudlin tears.

  In a sudden spasm of such feeling the company waxed political. “Drink, gentlemen,” cried Francis, “to the only King, the only Prince, and the only Cause. Drink good luck to all honest fellows who take their sword in their hand and their plaid on their back when their master bids them. May the dirty Germans be sent packing and our ain lad sit in St. James’.”

  All rose with wild cries and breaking glass, and a shrill Gaelic song, wild as a gled’s scream, rasped through the place. All save one, — the sober Mr. Forbes, who sat smiling and self-possessed in his chimney-corner.

  Then arose Long John of the Dow Glen with his broken speech. “There iss a man, a fat Southron of a man, who will not trink to the goot causs. By Heaven, he will get something mair in hiss guts than fusky, if he toes not.” Robin Mactavish and Hamish the Black added like comments. The little man with the trews was too far gone to speak, but he waved a threatening glass.

  Francis had still the wits to refrain from shouting the dissenter’s name. But he called on him to drink to the King, or he, Mr. Francis Birkenshaw, would know the reason.

  “I will drink a toast, Mr. Robertson (or is it Mr. Birkenshaw?),” said the man, and he rose slowly to his feet. “Gentlemen all,” he cried, “I drink — to all good intentions.”

  The words sounded satisfactory and a great shout was the reply, as each man interpreted the toast into the tongue of his own sentiments.

  But Francis was little content. “Ye’re a Whig,” he cried, “a smooth-spoken whigamore, unfit for the company of honest gentlemen.” And he turned on him with the abuse of the stable-yard.

  For a second the two were left alone, for a debate had arisen between Robin the Piper and him of the Dow Glen, which distracted the others. The elder man looked at his drunken opponent with angry and pitiful eyes.

  “Your speech, sir,” he said, “is most filthy and shameful. You belong to the wrong side, and I am glad of it, for it would be a disgrace for the right party to have you. But you have women in your cause whose memory should bridle your tongue. I know naught of you or your business, but it little becomes a man to thus forget himself, when he is of the same persuasion as so many honest ladies.”

  “You have spoken the word, sir,” said Francis. “And now I propose that you join me in drinking to the best and bonniest. Gentlemen,” he cried, “I give you the toast of the bonny Mrs. Murray.”

  The whole tipsy company caught at the name and drank deep to the health of the famous lady, some calling her by her strange Gaelic name, which meant “the dew of April.” In the wildest glens of the north the story was told of her beauty, and she was as often on loyal lips as the Prince himself. So with all the good-will in the world the tipsy crew cried her name, while Mr. Forbes sat gloomily and angrily silent.

  * * * * *

  Francis awoke the next morning with a burning head and a heart from which all gaiety had gone. He dressed with woe-begone leisure and came into the kitchen rubbing weary eyes. The place was quiet utterly; about the door hens were clucking, a great hum of the farm-yard was in the air, and through the open entrance he saw the high steep shoulder of a hill. The company of the night before had gone early; in some haste he looked about for the Lord President, but he too had departed. He went out of doors and smelt the fresh air of morn. The rain had gone, and the whole narrow vale was bright with sun and swollen water. But the sky warned him that he had slept late, so he cried for the hostess. She came wiping her hands, a miracle of dirty unkemptness. Where had the others gone, he asked. “Ach, their own ways. She kent nocht of the folk that cam to her publick. She was only a poor woman, fightin’ to keep body and saul together in evil days. All had left early, even the old man that was sae prawly drest.” Francis plied her with irritable questions on the way he had taken. But the woman was trusty; Whig or Jacobite were nought to her, she would tell nothing of her guests; and to aid her pious resolution she discovered opportunely that she knew no more English than the barest
smattering.

  So he must needs take things as he found them, breakfast on eggs, pay a modest lawing, and ride off in a violent ill-humour. The memory of the night’s doings still rankled in his heart. He had forfeited all claim to that character which he had fairly thought he had attained to. He had slipped back to the worst days of his youth, and got drunk in the company of filthy barbarians. The figure of the Lord President added bitterness to his reflections. The man of the world, the true man of affairs, had despised him as a lecherous boy. He pictured his own tipsy abandonment, his talk, his maudlin jests, all watched with the keen eye of the greatest man in the country. The shame of the thing made him cry out and curse his fortune.

  But the gall of the matter was his toasting of his mistress. In his sober hours the very speaking of her name in such a company and such a place seemed the sheerest blasphemy. And the circumstances of the toast, the drunken laughter, the foul talk, the brazen defiance of all decency, made the crime more heinous. In a common alehouse he had insulted, grossly insulted, the name of her who had given him a reason to live. He reviewed every scene in his drama where she had entered, — the midnight raid on the House of Broughton, the tragic farce at the inn, the sight of the lady on the grey horse in the street of Edinburgh, and finally that strange meeting in her own house where he had seen the full nakedness of his own soul. The memory of her face nigh drove him frantic. He was riding on her errand, and, lo! he had betrayed her cause at the very outset.

  But with the progress of the day his mind grew quieter. The more poignant shame died down, leaving only a regret. The weather was clear and bright, autumn without storm and heaviness. The road rose slowly from the straiter glens to a high table-land, where shallow vales marked the extreme upland waters of young rivers. A wide country lay bare to the view, all alike rough with wood and heather; while in the distance a circle of dark mountains made a barrier as of some great amphitheatre. The place had a soothing effect upon his spirits. Something in the moorland peace, the quiet of these endless fields of heather where deer couched and wild birds nested, brought ease and some sanity of mind. To the man who knew only the city wynds or the shrill-sounding beaches of Fife, this untilled land had an exquisite and elemental freshness, as of the primeval world.