Complete Fictional Works of John Buchan (Illustrated)

by John Buchan

  One man only he met in all that green, silent vale. This was a pedlar with a pack, a man seemingly half-witted, but to Francis’ delight able to speak Scots easily. When he met him he was swinging on, with a vacant eye on the hill-tops, singing some nonsensical catch. He was about to pass without noticing his presence, but Francis stopped him short and asked him the way. Clearly there could be no danger in getting news of the land from a crazy packman.

  “Saw ye any soldiers,” said Francis, “as ye came up the water?”

  The man with difficulty cut short his star-gazing and looked at the questioner.

  “Sodgers ay, sodgers mony,” said he, and he went on with his singing, —

  “If ye hae plenty and winna gie,

  Besouthen, Besouthen!

  The deil will get ye when ye dee,

  And awa’ by southron toun!”

  Francis weariness made him cross. “Where saw ye them?” he asked.

  “There were some at the Nairn and mae at Iverness and mony mae at the Spey-side,” said the man. “There’ll be war, bluidy war, and mony deid at Beltane.”

  “Then where is the Prince’s army?”

  “Whatna Prince?” said the man, dreamily.

  For answer Francis took him by the collar and shook him soundly.

  “Give me a plain answer, you fool. Ye may be daft, but ye are none so daft as that.”

  The man looked at him quizzically. “See here, my freend,” he said, “if ye are an honest man like me and nae moss-trooper, but traivellin’ for your ain eedification, when ye meet a man in thae camsteery times ye’ll let on that ye’re no quite wise. It’s the safest way. As for the Prince, as ye ca’ him, he’s in Inverness; but Cumberland’s at Nairn, and they say that Chairlie will march out to Culloden the nicht to be ready for him.”

  “And Culloden,” said Francis, “where is it?”

  “Ten mile doun the haughs when ye win by the hills and come to the land muir. And guid day to ye, freend.” The man went off, and as if anxious to keep his hand in, fell back on his old melody. Francis heard the words quavering down the road, —

  “My shoon are made o’ the red-coo’s hide,

  Besouthen, Besouthen!

  My feet are cauld, I canna bide,

  And awa’ by southron toun!”

  Those last ten miles were not far from the limits of his endurance, but with teeth set fast in his lips and his knees knoitering he accomplished them. A great wide plain running straight to the sea-line lay before him; so vast it was that it looked like the beginning of a shoreless ocean. Woods seemed to rise on the far right, and to the left the dim points of spires, while many scores of miles away over Firth and haughland rose blue ridges of mountain. Not half a mile off a bald, square house stood in the waste, and all around was rough with heather and ridges of moor.

  But what chiefly caught his eye was the stir around the house, a great armament of men already in camp, and straggling lines still coming from the North. It was already almost sunset, and fires were being lit in the hollows of the moss, and rough tents stretched on their poles. Troops of horse seemed to move about like pawns on a board, and even at the distance he could hear distinct words of command. And yet it was not the sight of a great army entrenched, but rather of a gathering of reiving bands, already in the act of moving. The chimneys of the house smoked as if it were well inhabited, and the sight of men hurrying in and out proclaimed it the Prince’s quarters.

  The first sentry he met was a wild man of the Camerons, who had scarce a word of English, and showed much desire to dispute the passage. As it was, he marched by his side with drawn claymore, till he handed him to a more civil clansman with many warnings. Francis found himself led through a line of bivouacs to what seemed to be the limits of a garden. There he trod the relics of a lawn, all trampled into ruts, with the bushes torn to ribbons and field-pieces lying blackly in the twilight. At the house door two sentries in kilts stood negligently, while a dozen ragged wretches quarrelled before the threshold. From within came a great riot as of many men speaking at once, mingled with shrill wailing from some miserable women who cowered in the shadow. Even in the mysterious half-light of the spring dusk the place and people seemed tattered, dishevelled, and ill-ordered. This was no camp of a conquering force; rather the hopeless last standing-ground of desperate men. Every face was pinched like his own, and their clothing was sadly worn. The hollow eyes had the look of famine, and weariness blinked in their unheeding looks.

  He was led through the hall up a narrow oak staircase to a room above the chief door of the house. Here he had to give an account of his errand; before “business with the Prince” had been sufficient pass-word. But now he must declare himself the bearer of a letter, news of moment to the Cause. He had no thought of the nature of his reception. He had his duty to do, to give the letter; this fact alone in his weakness was clear to his brain. He was months late; events to change an era might have come to pass while he lay helpless; after all, it was but an empty errand to fulfil the letter of his mission; and then — ah, then he might wander to the ends of the earth and leave the struggle. An overwhelming desire for rest and sleep was upon him, and he faced the ordeal of the council-room with scarcely a thought.

  Five men sat up and down the room, one at a table busily writing, another in a great arm-chair by the fire, and the three others taking off their boots at the hearth. The soldier — one of Cluny’s Macphersons — walked to the man in the chair with a rough salute and told him Francis’ errand. Then he closed the door, and the messenger advanced heavily to the company.

  He in the chair was a slim young man dressed in the somewhat tarnished splendour of stained tartans, dusty lace, and dull gold braiding. His hair was powdered badly in patches, and his whole air was of unrest and weariness. Dark hollows lay below his eyes, and his cheek-bones stood out so sharply that he seemed to be smiling. Something of grace, of delicate breeding and long-descended pride, lay in his mien, but he was so huddled with lassitude that one could not judge him. He looked up drearily as Francis entered, and then with the forced grace of kingship asked him his business.

  “I am the bearer of a letter from the Lord Lovat to your Highness,” said Francis, and he laid it humbly in his hand.

  At the word all looked more curiously, and the man at the table jumped to his feet. He was a big, handsome man with a large, well-formed face and little twinkling eyes. Here in this land of want he seemed the one thing prosperous, for there was something lawyer-like and diplomatic in his smooth forehead and mobile, twitching lips. He stood watching his master with eager eyes as he broke the seal.

  At the first look the Prince cried out and flung the letter to the other. “Why, man, it is dated from October. The thing is months old, and you come with it here! What has delayed you, in Heaven’s name, or do you think this is a fitting time to play a fool’s pranks on desperate men?”

  Francis heard him only as if far away. His weariness had come over him as he stood, and a sea of angry men seemed to be rising on all sides. He staggered, and caught at the table to save himself.

  “Tut, the man is ill,” cried the Prince, with ready sympathy, and he poured out a glass of wine from a bottle at his elbow and handed it to Francis. “It’s ill speaking with a fainting man.”

  Meantime the Secretary had read the letter carefully through with his face puckered in smiles. “So,” he said, “this is Lovat’s confession of faith! Little he thinks that it has just reached us, or I’ll warrant the Frasers would be anywhere but in the field;” and he passed it to a tall man in tartans who had risen from the hearth.

  “But I am waiting on your answer,” said the Prince. “How comes it that you are so far behind the day?”

  The tall man read the letter and threw it on the table. “It’s a thing of no value,” he said; “ye may burn it whenever ye like. But tell me, sir, [this to Francis] how ye came to keep the thing back?”

  Francis’ ears were humming again, and he looked helplessly from one to the o
ther. “I fell ill,” he said aimlessly; “I fell ill somewhere in the hills and am just now recovered.”

  “A likely story!” cried the tall man, but the Prince bade him hold his peace. “The man’s condition speaks for itself, my lord,” he said; “he has the look of one walking in delirium.”

  “But who in God’s name are ye?” cried the Secretary. “I have never seen ye in my life, and kenned nothing of your errand to the Lord Lovat.”

  Francis put a strong grip on his wits and answered him. “It was at the bidding of Mrs. Murray of Broughton that I went that road.”

  “Oh, ho,” said the man, whistling softly, “and that was one of Meg’s ploys. Well, well, she kens her own mind as well as most,” and he fell to turning up a small book of memoranda. “Here it is,” he cried, “written with her own hand. ‘Mr. Francis Birkenshaw sent to a great Gentleman in the North, September 29. M. M.’ Well, Mr. Francis Birkenshaw, ye have made a bonny hash of the business.”

  Now Francis heard the rest scarcely at all, but the mention of Mrs. Murray pierced clearly to his dazed wits. Who was this smooth, sleek man to talk of her thus? His hands itched to get at his throat.

  But the Prince saved him by breaking in. “Let the poor fellow alone, Mr. Murray; it’s no time for recrimination. God knows we’re all in the devil’s own mess, and there’s not one to mend another.”

  In a moment Francis’ wits were awake and he was staring hard at the Secretary. This, then, was her husband. He had pictured a strong, silent man, wise in council and great in battle, one stern, proud, irreconcilable. And this was the real thing, this man who looked almost elderly, who had the air of a cunning lawyer rather than a great captain! He had been ready to hate or worship Murray of Broughton, to resent bitterly his unattainable power or to follow him with the hopeless loyalty that bound him to his wife. Instead he found a man he could all but despise, and his heart rejoiced. If he were unworthy of the lady’s glance, still more was this thing that called her wife.

  “We will put off Mr. Birkenshaw’s story to a happier time,” said the Secretary. “Meantime it may rejoice him to hear that the clan of Fraser has been in the field for months. No ill, trust me, sir, has been done by your misfortune, save that our deep affection for the Lord Lovat had had some time to wait for confirmation.” And he folded the letter and placed it in his pocket.

  Then the men turned to other matters and fell a-talking. Francis still stood gazing at the coals and leaning on the table, uncertain of his purpose and too weary to care. He heard much talk of the mad surprise-party which Lord George was to lead that very night, and he noted that this Athole man was the only one of the Council who had the air of brisk, soldierly bravado. He talked boldly of success, and stirred the others to some hope. The Secretary still sat quiet at the table, drumming with his fingers, and the Prince had risen and was walking uneasily about the room. Months of hazard had left their mark on him, for his eye had no brightness and his step halted; he looked like one on the eve of a great crisis, so much depressed by the overwhelming chance that even the uttermost defeat would set him at peace with himself. One thing burned into Francis’ memory. Charles came near the window and looked out to the wild camping-scene. Then he turned drearily to the fireplace. “My lords,” he said, “we are a little people and a poor. It is the war of the stag against the hunters.” And, leaning his head on the wall, he burst into tears in his foreign fashion, while the grave lords around him looked on wonderingly.

  Then he raised his head, and seeing the drooping Francis, was recalled to his business. Calling a sentry he bade him send for Golis Macbean. “You will be better for a long sleep, Mr. Birkenshaw,” he said, “and on the morrow you will be fresher for the difficult job before us. I will give you in charge of one of my own body-servants, who will see to your quarters.” Then, turning to the Secretary, “And what are your plans, Mr. Murray?” he asked. “Will you stay here or go back to Inverness? I should recommend the latter, for this will scarcely be a safe place for a sick man.”

  “I will go back to Inverness,” said the Secretary, dolefully. “My legs are no fit to carry me two yards. These humours of the body affect me painfully, and though I grieve to part from your Highness’ side, yet I am more in the nature of an encumbrance than an aid.”

  Francis looked at him and saw that for all his air of health, the man was indeed sick, for his face flushed and paled irregularly, and when he rose his legs tottered below him. But the sight of him wakened a remembrance in his mind, and he turned to him doubtfully.

  “It’s a small thing that I have to ask, but I promised my Lord Lovat that the letter would be destroyed when the clan came out. I have to beg you to lay it on the fire and so set me free of my promise.”

  “What a daft-like request!” said the Secretary, laughing. “It shall be done of course, for it is not the custom of the honest side to keep incriminating scrawls. Set your mind at ease, Mr. Birkenshaw, I will see it done.”

  Then he hobbled from the room with many apologies. A minute after a huge man entered and bowed at the Prince’s hand. “Take this gentleman, Golis,” said the Prince, “and see that he has some refreshment and as comfortable quarters as may be. It will be a poor recompense for his misfortunes.”

  Francis followed the big man through the house into a small out-building where a fire burned with beds stretched round it. Here he was given some food, coarse and scanty, and with the remnants of the whisky-flask he washed down his supper. His attendant clearly had little English, for he sat and watched him stolidly through the meal. Outside a small rain was beginning to fall, and beat through the broken window. The place was full of the sighing of wind, and as he lay down before the sputtering fire, Francis felt that he was indeed in a land forlorn, waiting the last extremity of a dying cause.

  * * * * *

  He slept the dreamless sleep of exhaustion till near midnight, when he was awakened by a noise of men and horses, — the return of the fruitless night-expedition. When he woke again it was early morning, and Golis was shaking him. He felt almost vigorous; the weakness of the night before had gone, and though his limbs ached he was no longer the feeble wanderer on the verge of faintness. Golis brought him food, and when asked of the events of the night shook his head dolefully. “It was no good,” he said, “for the road was as black as hell and they made ower muckle noise. Some they were wantin’ to go on, but Lord George he wad not agree, and the Prince, Got bless him, is very thrawn. It will have been a bad night’s work for all.” And he relapsed into taciturnity.

  Half in a dream Francis heard the drums and the skirl of the pipes, and found himself looking over the level moor to where it grew black with Cumberland’s troops. He saw the new addition of Frasers and Macdonalds, he watched the marching of the clan-regiments to position with the far-away interest of a spectator at a show. One thing he saw clearly, that the Loyalists were utterly outnumbered, and in their ragged, starved look he saw the premonition of death. Once Charles passed him and greeted him with a smile. “You will be still too weak for this work, Mr. Birkenshaw, so you had better stay behind with me and my attendants.” Then as the forenoon wore on and the enemy grew so near that he could see the outline of their features and the details of their dress, they opened a cannonade on the Highland army, which was answered as best they could. It was the signal for the fight, and as the Prince rode down the ranks with brave words on his lips, the men answered with that cheering which only the desperate raise, — the fierce cry of hopeless bravado.

  From his position in the rear he saw the whole battle at his feet. A wild blast of snow came down from the northeast sheer in the face of the Highland lines. In the teeth of the storm the long ranks of the hopeless pulled bonnet over brow, set their teeth, and went forth into the mist. It was no ordered charge, for the Macintoshes had broken away without word of command, and the Athole men, the Camerons, the Frasers, and the Macleans followed in a tempestuous rush. As if from far off came the noise of the meeting, and then through the hail t
here came a glimpse of a wild mêlée, of heaped ranks of the dead, and a deadly phalanx of foes. But there at least was the shock and fury of fight. On the left wing all was different. The Macdonalds stood rigid, like pawns on a board, their ranks ploughed up by the enemy’s musketry, too proud to fight in their ignoble position, — men with the face of death hewing at the heath with their swords in an impotent fury. In the murky weather and the loud din of war Francis could not see the close of that bitter drama. Though the Duke of Perth implored them to follow him, declaring that thenceforth he would call himself Macdonald, though their own chieftain Keppoch besought them with tears not to shame his name, the stubborn irreconcilables stood still, waiting upon death. As the whole Highland lines were broken, and clan after clan fled to the South, the Macdonalds too gave way. Not so their chief. “My God, the children of my race have forsaken me!” said he, and with pistol and sword he rushed to his doom among the advancing lines.

  In a very little it was all over. The host seemed to recoil upon its rear-guards, and in a trice Francis was swept wildly back by a rabble of dying and wounded. He was separated from the Prince and Golis, enclosed fast in a haggard troop who with wild eyes and wilder lamentations staggered over the heather. Their faces dripped with blood and sweat; many were gashed to the open bone, and every now and then one sank on the ground to be trodden under by the panic-stricken. Behind was a broad pavement of carnage, up and down which rode the English horse, slaying the hale and giving the last stroke to the dying. The air sickened with the hot, fresh smell of blood, and as they fled Francis’ old sickness came back on him and he well-nigh fainted. At last the rout grew thinner as it widened out on the extremity of the moor, and with a sob of fatigue he sank in a hollow among the rushes.