by John Buchan
During the last hours of that dark vigil my mind had been torn with cares. If we escaped the perils of the night, I asked myself, what then? Here were the seven of us, pinned in a hill-fort, with no help within fifty miles, and one of the seven was a woman! I judged that the Indian force was large, and there was always the mighty army waiting farther south in that shelf of the hills. If they sought to take us, it must be a matter of a day or two at the most till they succeeded. If they only played with us — which is the cruel Indian way — we might resist a little, but starvation would beat us down. Where were we to get food, with the forests full of our subtle enemies? To sit still would mean to wait upon death, and the waiting would not be long.
There was the chance, to be sure, that the Indians would be drawn off in the advance towards the east. But here came in a worse anxiety. I had come to get news to warn the Tidewater. That news I had got. The mighty gathering which Shalah’s eyes and mine had beheld in that upland glen was the peril we had foreseen. What good were easy victories over raiding Cherokees when this deadly host waited on the leash? I had no doubt that the Cherokees were now broken. Stafford county would be full of Nicholson’s militia, and Lawrence’s strong hand lay on the line of the Borders. But what availed it? While Virginia was flattering herself that she had repelled the savages, and the Rappahannock men were notching their muskets with the tale of the dead, a wave was gathering to sweep down the Pamunkey or the James, and break on the walls of James Town. I did not think that Nicholson, forewarned and prepared, could stem the torrent; and if it caught him unawares the proud Tidewater would break like a rotten reed.
I had been sent to scout. Was I to be false to the word I had given, and let any risk to myself or others deter me from taking back the news? The Indian army tarried; why, I did not know — perhaps some mad whim of their soothsayers, perhaps the device of a wise general; but at any rate they tarried. If a war party could spend a night in baiting us and slaying our horses, there could be no very instant orders for the road. If this were so, a bold man might yet reach the Border line. At that moment it seemed to me a madman’s errand. Even if I slipped past the watchers in the woods and the glens, the land between would be strewn with fragments of the Cherokee host, and I had not the Indian craft. But it was very seriously borne in upon me that ‘twas my duty to try. God might prosper a bold stroke, and in any case I should be true to my trust.
But what of Elspeth? The thought of leaving her was pure torment. In our hideous peril ‘twas scarcely to be endured that one should go. I told myself that if I reached the Border I could get help, but my heart warned me that I lied. My news would leave no time there for riding hillward to rescue a rash adventure. We were beyond the pale, and must face the consequences. That we all had known, and reckoned with, but we had not counted that our risk would be shared by a woman. Ah I that luckless ride of Elspeth’s! But for that foolish whim she would be safe now in the cool house at Middle Plantation, with a ship to take her to safety if the worst befell. And now of all the King’s subjects in that hour we were the most ill-fated, islanded on a sand heap with the tide of savage war hourly eating into our crazy shelter.
Before the daylight came, as I stood with my cheek to my musket, I had come to a resolution. In a tangle of duties a man must seize the solitary clear one, and there could be no doubt of what mine was, I must try for the Tidewater, and I must try alone, Shalah had the best chance to get through, but without Shalah the stockade was no sort of refuge. Ringan was wiser and stronger than I, but I thought I had more hill-craft, and, besides, the duty was mine, not his. Grey had no knowledge of the wilds, and Donaldson and Bertrand could not handle the news as it should be handled, in the unlikely event of their getting through alive. No, there were no two ways of it. I must make the effort, though in that leaden hour of weariness and cold it seemed as if my death-knell were ringing.
Morn showed a grey world, strewn with the havoc of the storm. The eagles were already busy among the dead horses, and our first job was to bury the poor beasts. Just outside the stockade we dug as best we could a shallow trench, while the muskets of the others kept watch over us. There we laid also the body of the man I had shot in the night. He was a young savage, naked to the waist, and curiously tattooed on the forehead with the device of what seemed to be a rising or setting sun. I observed that Shalah looked closely at this, and that his face wore an unusual excitement. He said something in his own tongue, and, when the trench was dug, laid the dead man in it so that his head pointed westwards.
We wrought in a dogged silence, and Elspeth’s cheery whistling was the only sound in that sullen morning. It fairly broke my heart. She was whistling the old tune of “Leezie Lindsay,” a merry lilt with the hill wind and the heather in it. The bravery of the poor child was the hardest thing of all to bear when I knew that in a few hours’ time the end might come. The others were only weary and dishevelled and ill at ease, but on me seemed to have fallen the burden of the cares of the whole earth.
Shalah had disappeared for a little, and came back with the word that the near forests were empty. So I summoned a council, and talked as we breakfasted. I had looked into the matter of the food, and found that we had sufficient for three days. We had boucanned a quantity of deer’s flesh two days before, and this, with the fruit of yesterday’s trapping, made a fair stock in our larder.
Then I announced my plan. “I am going to try to reach Lawrence,” I said.
No one spoke. Shalah lifted his head, and looked at me gravely.
“Does any man object?” I asked sharply, for my temper was all of an edge.
“Your throat will be cut in the first mile,” said Donaldson gruffly.
“Maybe it will, but maybe not. At any rate, I can try. You have not heard what Shalah and I found in the hills yesterday. Twelve miles south there is a glen with a plateau at its head, and that plateau is as full of Indians as a beehive. Ay, Ringan, you and Lawrence were right. The Cherokees are the least of the trouble. There’s a great army come out of the West, men that you and I never saw the like of before, and they are waiting till the Cherokees have drawn the fire of the Borderers, and then they will bring hell to the Tidewater. You and I know that there’s some sort of madman in command, a man that quotes the Bible and speaks English; but madman or not, he’s a great general, and woe betide Virginia if he gets among the manors. I was sent to the hills to get news, and I’ve got it. Would it not be the part of a coward to bide here and make no effort to warn our friends?”
“What good would a warning do?” said Ringan. “Even if you got through to Lawrence — which is not very likely — d’you think a wheen Borderers in a fort will stay such an army? It would only mean that you lost your life on the South Fork instead of in the hills, and there’s little comfort in that.”
“It’s not like you to give such counsel,” I said sadly. “A man cannot think whether his duty will succeed as long as it’s there for him to do it. Maybe my news would make all the differ. Maybe there would be time to get Nicholson’s militia to the point of danger. God has queer ways of working, if we trust Him with honest hearts. Besides, a word on the Border would save the Tidewater folk, for there are ships on the James and the York to flee to if they hear in time. Let Virginia go down and be delivered over to painted savages, and some day soon we will win it back; but we cannot bring life to the dead. I want to save the lowland manors from what befell the D’Aubignys on the Rapidan, and if I can only do that much I will be content. Will you counsel me, Ringan, to neglect my plain duty?”
“I gave no counsel,” said Ringan hurriedly. “I was only putting the common sense of it. It’s for you to choose.”
Here Grey broke in. “I protest against this craziness. Your first duty is to your comrades and to this lady. If you desert us we lose our best musket, and you have as little chance of reaching the Tidewater as the moon. Arc you so madly enamoured of death, Mr. Garvald?” He spoke in the old stiff tones of the man I had quarrelled with.
I t
urned to Shalah. “Is there any hope of getting to the South Fork?”
He looked me very full in the face. “As much hope as a dove has who falls broken-winged into an eyrie of falcons! As much hope as the deer when the hunter’s knife is at its throat! Yet the dove may escape, and the deer may yet tread the forest. While a man draws breath there is hope, brother.”
“Which I take to mean that the odds are a thousand against one,” said Grey.
“Then it’s my business to stake all on the one,” I cried. “Man, don’t you see my quandary? I hold a solemn trust, which I have the means of fulfilling, and I’m bound to try. It’s torture to me to leave you, but you will lose nothing. Three men could hold this place as well as six, if the Indians are not in earnest, and, if they are, a hundred would be too few. Your danger will be starvation, and I will be a mouth less to feed. If I get to the Border I will find help, for we cannot stay here for ever, and how d’you think we are to get Miss Blair by ourselves to the Rappahannock with every mile littered with fighting clans? I must go, or I will never have another moment’s peace in life.” Grey was not convinced. “Send the Indian,” he said.
“And leave the stockade defenceless,” I cried. “It’s because he stays behind that I dare to go. Without him we are all bairns in the dark.”
“That’s true, anyway,” said Ringan, and fell to whittling a stick.
“For three days,” I continued, “you have food enough, and if by the end of it you are not attacked you may safely go hunting for more. If nothing happens in a week’s time you will know that I have failed, and you can send another messenger. Ringan would be the best.”
“That can hardly be,” he said, “because I’m coming with you now.”
I could only stare blankly.
“Two’s better than one for this kind of business, and I am no use here — only fruges consumere natus, as I learned from the Inveraray dominie. It’s my concern as much as yours, for I brought you here, and I’m trysted with Lawrence to take back word. I’m loath to leave my friends, but my place is at your side, Andrew. So say no more about it.”
I knew it was idle to protest. Ringan was as obstinate as a Spanish mule when he chose, and, besides, there was reason in what he said. Two were better than one both for speed in travel and for fighting if the need came, and though I had more woodcraft than he, he had ten times my wisdom. There was something about his matter-of-fact tone which took the enterprise out of the land of impossibilities into a more sober realm. I even began to dream of success.
But when. I looked at Elspeth her eyes were so full of grief and care that my spirits sank again.
“Tell me,” I cried, “that you think I am doing right, God knows it is hard to leave you, and I carry the sorest heart in Virginia. But you would not have me stay idle when my plain duty commands. Say that you bid me go, Elspeth.”
“I bid you go,” she said bravely, “and I will pray God to keep you safe.” But her eyes belied her voice, for they were swimming with tears. At that moment I got the conviction that I was more to her than a mere companion, that by some miracle I had won a place in that proud and loyal heart. It seemed a cruel stroke of fate that I should get this hope at the very moment when I was to leave her and go into the shadow of death.
But that was no hour to think of love, I took every man apart and swore him, though there was little need, to stand by the girl at all costs.
To Grey I opened my inmost thoughts.
“You and I serve one mistress,” I said, “and now I confide her to your care. All that I would have done I am assured you will do. My heart is easier when I know that you are by her side. Once we were foes, and since then we have been friends, and now you are the dearest friend on earth, for I leave you with all I cherish.”
He flushed deeply and gave me his hand.
“Go in peace, sir,” he said. “If God wills that we perish, my last act will be to assure an easy passage to heaven for her we worship. If we meet again, we meet as honourable rivals, and may that day come soon.”
So with pistols in belt, and a supply of cartouches and some little food in our pockets, Ringan and I were enfolded in the silence of the woods.
CHAPTER 23. THE HORN OF DIARMAID SOUNDS
We reached the gap, and made slantwise across the farther hill. I did not dare to go clown Clearwater Glen, and, besides, I was aiming for a point farther south than the Rappahannock. In my wanderings with Shalah I had got a pretty good idea of the lie of the mountains on their eastern side, and I had remarked a long ridge which flung itself like a cape far into the lowlands. If we could leave the hills by this, I thought we might strike the stream called the North Fork, which would bring us in time to the neighbourhood of Frew’s dwelling. The ridges were our only safe path, for they were thickly overgrown with woods, and the Indian bands were less likely to choose them for a route. The danger was in the glens, where the trees were sparser and the broad stretches of meadow made better going for horses.
The movement of my legs made me pluck up heart. I was embarked at any rate in a venture, and had got rid of my desperate indecision. The two of us held close together, and chose the duskiest thickets, crawling belly-wise over the little clear patches and avoiding the crown of the ridge like the plague. The weather helped us, for the skies hung grey and low, with wisps of vapour curling among the trees. The glens were pits of mist, and my only guide was my recollection of what I had seen, and the easterly course of the streams.
By midday we had mounted to the crest of a long scarp which fell away in a narrow and broken promontory towards the plains. So far we had seen nothing to give us pause, and the only risk lay in some Indian finding and following our trail. We lay close in a scrubby wood, and rested for a little, while we ate some food. Everything around us dripped with moisture, and I could have wrung pints from my coat and breeches.
“Oh for the Dry Tortugas!” Ringan sighed. “What I would give for a hot sun and the kindly winds o’ the sea! I thought I pined for the hills, Andrew, but I would not give a clean beach and a warm sou’-wester for all the mountains on earth.”
Then again: “Yon’s a fine lass,” he would say.
I did not reply, for I had no heart to speak of what I had left behind.
“Cheer up, young one,” he cried. “There was more lost at Flodden. A gentleman-adventurer must live by the hour, and it’s surprising how Fortune favours them that trust her. There was a man I mind, in Breadalbane... “ And here he would tell some tale of how light came out of black darkness for the trusting heart.
“Man, Ringan,” I said, “I see your kindly purpose. But tell me, did ever you hear of such a tangle as ours being straightened out?
“Why, yes,” he said. “I’ve been in worse myself, and here I am. I have been in a cell at Cartagena, chained to a man that had died of the plague, with the gallows preparing for me at cock-crow. But in the night some friends o’ mine came into the bay, and I had the solemn joy of stepping out of yon cell over the corp of the Almirante. I’ve been mad with fever, and jumped into the Palmas River among the alligators, and not one of them touched me, though I was swimming about crying that the water was burning oil. And then a lad in a boat gave me a clout on the head that knocked the daftness out of me, and in a week I was marching on my own deck, with my bonnet cocked like a king’s captain. I’ve been set by my unfriends on a rock in the Florida Keys, with a keg of dirty water and a bunch of figs, and the sun like to melt my brains, and two bullet holes in my thigh. But I came out of the pickle, and lived to make the men that put me there sorry they had been born. Ay, and I’ve seen my grave dug, and my dead clothes ready, and in a week I was making napkins out of them. There’s a wonderful kindness in Providence to mettled folk.”
“Ay, Ringan, but that was only the risk of your own neck. I think I could endure that. But was there ever another you liked far better than yourself, that you had to see in deadly peril?”
“No. I’ll be honest with you, there never was. I grant you that’s
the hardest thing to thole. But you’ll keep a stiff lip even to that, seeing you are the braver of the two of us.”
At that I cried out in expostulation, but Ringan was firm.
“Ay, the braver by far, and I’ll say it again. I’m a man of the dancing blood, with a rare appetite for frays and forays. You are the sedate soul that would be happier at home in the chimney corner. And yet you are the most determined of the lot of us, though you have no pleasure in it. Why? Just because you are the bravest. You can force yourself to a job when flesh and spirit cry out against it. I let no man alive cry down my courage, but I say freely that it’s not to be evened with yours.”
I was not feeling very courageous. As we sped along the ridge in the afternoon I seemed to myself like a midge lost in a monstrous net. The dank, dripping trees and the misty hills seemed to muffle and deaden the world. I could not believe that they ever would end; that anywhere there was a clear sky and open country. And I had always the feeling that in those banks of vapour lurked deadly enemies who any moment might steal out and encompass us.
But about four o’clock the weather lightened, and from the cock’s-comb on which we moved we looked down into the lower glens. I saw that we had left the main flanks of the range behind us, and were now fairly on a cape which jutted out beyond the other ridges. It behoved us now to go warily, and where the thickets grew thin we moved like hunters, in every hollow and crack that could shelter a man. Ringan led, and led well, for he had not stalked the red deer on the braes of Breadalbane for nothing. But no sign of life appeared in the green hollows on either hand, neither in the meadow spaces nor by the creeks of the growing streams. The world was dead silent; not even a bird showed in the whole firmament.
