by John Buchan
His business, he felt, was to keep from thinking, for if he thought at all there would be a flow of memories — of his wife, his home, his books, his friends — to unman him. So he steeled himself to blankness, like a sleepless man imagining white sheep in a gate... He noted a robin below the hazels, strutting impudently. And there was a tit on a bracken frond, which made the thing sway like one of the see-saws he used to play with as a boy. There was no wind in that undergrowth, and any movement must be due to bird or beast. The tit flew off, and the oscillations of the bracken slowly died away. Then they began again, but more violently, and Dickson could not see the bird that caused them. It must be something down at the roots of the covert, a rabbit, perhaps, or a fox, or a weasel.
He watched for the first sign of the beast, and thought he caught a glimpse of tawny fur. Yes, there it was — pale dirty yellow, a weasel clearly. Then suddenly the patch grow larger, and to his amazement he looked at a human face — the face of a pallid small boy.
A head disentangled itself, followed by thin shoulders, and then by a pair of very dirty bare legs. The figure raised itself and looked sharply round to make certain that the coast was clear. Then it stood up and saluted, revealing the well-known lineaments of Wee Jaikie.
At the sight Dickson knew that he was safe by that certainty of instinct which is independent of proof, like the man who prays for a sign and has his prayer answered. He observed that the boy was quietly sobbing. Jaikie surveyed the position for an instant with red-rimmed eyes and then unclasped a knife, feeling the edge of the blade on his thumb. He darted behind the fir, and a second later Dickson’s wrists were free. Then he sawed at the legs, and cut the shackles which tied them together, and then — most circumspectly — assaulted the cord which bound Dickson’s neck to the trunk. There now remained only the two bonds which fastened the legs and the body to the tree.
There was a sound in the wood different from the wind and stream. Jaikie listened like a startled hind.
“They’re comin’ back,” he gasped. “Just you bide where ye are and let on ye’re still tied up.”
He disappeared in the scrub as inconspicuously as a rat, while two of the tinklers came up the slope from the waterside. Dickson in a fever of impatience cursed Wee Jaikie for not cutting his remaining bonds so that he could at least have made a dash for freedom. And then he realized that the boy had been right. Feeble and cramped as he was, he would have stood no chance in a race.
One of the tinklers was the man called Ecky. He had been running hard, and was mopping his brow.
“Hob’s seen the brig,” he said. “It’s droppin’ anchor ayont the Dookits whaur there’s a bield frae the wund and deep water. They’ll be landit in half an ‘oor. Awa’ you up to the Hoose and tell Dobson, and me and Sim and Hob will meet the boats at the Garplefit.”
The other cast a glance towards Dickson.
“What about him?” he asked.
The two scrutinized their prisoner from a distance of a few paces. Dickson, well aware of his peril, held himself as stiff as if every bond had been in place. The thought flashed on him that if he were too immobile they might think he was dying or dead, and come close to examine him. If they only kept their distance, the dusk of the wood would prevent them detecting Jaikie’s handiwork.
“What’ll you take to let me go?” he asked plaintively.
“Naething that you could offer, my mannie,” said Ecky.
“I’ll give you a five-pound note apiece.”
“Produce the siller,” said the other.
“It’s in my pocket.”
“It’s no’ that. We riped your pooches lang syne.”
“I’ll take you to Glasgow with me and pay you there. Honour bright.”
Ecky spat. “D’ye think we’re gowks? Man, there’s no siller ye could pay wad mak’ it worth our while to lowse ye. Bide quiet there and ye’ll see some queer things ere nicht. C’way, Davie.”
The two set off at a good pace down the stream, while Dickson’s pulsing heart returned to its normal rhythm. As the sound of their feet died away Wee Jaikie crawled out from cover, dry-eyed now and very business-like. He slit the last thongs, and Dickson fell limply on his face.
“Losh, laddie, I’m awful stiff,” he groaned. “Now, listen. Away all your pith to Dougal, and tell him that the brig’s in and the men will be landing inside the hour. Tell him I’m coming as fast as my legs will let me. The Princess will likely be there already and Sir Archibald and his men, but if they’re no’, tell Dougal they’re coming. Haste you, Jaikie. And see here, I’ll never forget what you’ve done for me the day. You’re a fine wee laddie!”
The obedient Die-Hard disappeared, and Dickson painfully and laboriously set himself to climb the slope. He decided that his quickest and safest route lay by the highroad, and he had also some hopes of recovering his bicycle. On examining his body he seemed to have sustained no very great damage, except a painful cramping of legs and arms and a certain dizziness in the head. His pockets had been thoroughly rifled, and he reflected with amusement that he, the well-to-do Mr. McCunn, did not possess at the moment a single copper.
But his spirits were soaring, for somehow his escape had given him an assurance of ultimate success. Providence had directly interfered on his behalf by the hand of Wee Jaikie, and that surely meant that it would see him through. But his chief emotion was an ardour of impatience to get to the scene of action. He must be at Dalquharter before the men from the sea; he must find Dougal and discover his dispositions. Heritage would be on guard in the Tower, and in a very little the enemy would be round it. It would be just like the Princess to try and enter there, but at all costs that must be hindered. She and Sir Archie must not be cornered in stone walls, but must keep their communications open and fall on the enemy’s flank. Oh, if the police would only come it time, what a rounding up of miscreants that day would see!
As the trees thinned on the brow of the slope and he saw the sky, he realized that the afternoon was far advanced. It must be well on for five o’clock. The wind still blew furiously, and the oaks on the fringes of the wood were whipped like saplings. Ruefully he admitted that the gale would not defeat the enemy. If the brig found a sheltered anchorage on the south side of the headland beyond the Garple, it would be easy enough for boats to make the Garple mouth, though it might be a difficult job to get out again. The thought quickened his steps, and he came out of cover on to the public road without a prior reconnaissance. Just in front of him stood a motor-bicycle. Something had gone wrong with it for its owner was tinkering at it, on the side farthest from Dickson. A wild hope seized him that this might be the vanguard of the police, and he went boldly towards it. The owner, who was kneeling, raised his face at the sound of footsteps and Dickson looked into his eyes.
He recognized them only too well. They belonged to the man he had seen in the inn at Kirkmichael, the man whom Heritage had decided to be an Australian, but whom they now know to be their arch-enemy — the man called Paul who had persecuted the Princess for years and whom alone of all beings on earth she feared. He had been expected before, but had arrived now in the nick of time while the brig was casting anchor. Saskia had said that he had a devil’s brain, and Dickson, as he stared at him, saw a fiendish cleverness in his straight brows and a remorseless cruelty in his stiff jaw and his pale eyes.
He achieved the bravest act of his life. Shaky and dizzy as he was, with freedom newly opened to him and the mental torments of his captivity still an awful recollection, he did not hesitate. He saw before him the villain of the drama, the one man that stood between the Princess and peace of mind. He regarded no consequences, gave no heed to his own fate, and thought only how to put his enemy out of action. There was a by spanner lying on the ground. He seized it and with all his strength smote at the man’s face.
The motor-cyclist, kneeling and working hard at his machine, had raised his head at Dickson’s approach and beheld a wild apparition — a short man in ragged tweeds, with a bloody b
row and long smears of blood on his cheeks. The next second he observed the threat of attack, and ducked his head so that the spanner only grazed his scalp. The motor-bicycle toppled over, its owner sprang to his feet, and found the short man, very pale and gasping, about to renew the assault. In such a crisis there was no time for inquiry, and the cyclist was well trained in self-defence. He leaped the prostrate bicycle, and before his assailant could get in a blow brought his left fist into violent contact with his chin. Dickson tottered a step or two and then subsided among the bracken.
He did not lose his senses, but he had no more strength in him. He felt horribly ill, and struggled in vain to get up. The cyclist, a gigantic figure, towered above him. “Who the devil are you?” he was asking. “What do you mean by it?”
Dickson had no breath for words, and knew that if he tried to speak he would be very sick. He could only stare up like a dog at the angry eyes. Angry beyond question they were, but surely not malevolent. Indeed, as they looked at the shameful figure on the ground, amusement filled them. The face relaxed into a smile.
“Who on earth are you?” the voice repeated. And then into it came recognition. “I’ve seen you before. I believe you’re the little man I saw last week at the Black Bull. Be so good as to explain why you want to murder me.”
Explanation was beyond Dickson, but his conviction was being woefully shaken. Saskia had said her enemy was a beautiful as a devil — he remembered the phrase, for he had thought it ridiculous. This man was magnificent, but there was nothing devilish in his lean grave face.
“What’s your name?” the voice was asking.
“Tell me yours first,” Dickson essayed to stutter between spasms of nausea.
“My name is Alexander Nicholson,” was the answer.
“Then you’re no’ the man.” It was a cry of wrath and despair.
“You’re a very desperate little chap. For whom had I the honour to be mistaken?”
Dickson had now wriggled into a sitting position and had clasped his hands above his aching head.
“I thought you were a Russian, name of Paul,” he groaned.
“Paul! Paul who?”
“Just Paul. A Bolshevik and an awful bad lot.”
Dickson could not see the change which his words wrought in the other’s face. He found himself picked up in strong arms and carried to a bog-pool where his battered face was carefully washed, his throbbing brows laved, and a wet handkerchief bound over them. Then he was given brandy in the socket of a flask, which eased his nausea. The cyclist ran his bicycle to the roadside, and found a seat for Dickson behind the turf-dyke of the old bucht.
“Now you are going to tell me everything,” he said. “If the Paul who is your enemy is the Paul I think him, then we are allies.”
But Dickson did not need this assurance. His mind had suddenly received a revelation. The Princess had expected an enemy, but also a friend. Might not this be the long-awaited friend, for whose sake she was rooted to Huntingtower with all its terrors?
“Are you sure your name’s no’ Alexis?” he asked.
“In my own country I was called Alexis Nicolaevitch, for I am a Russian. But for some years I have made my home with your folk, and I call myself Alexander Nicholson, which is the English form. Who told you about Alexis?
“Give me your hand,” said Dickson shamefacedly. “Man, she’s been looking for you for weeks. You’re terribly behind the fair.”
“She!” he cried. “For God’s sake, tell me what you mean.”
“Ay, she — the Princess. But what are we havering here for? I tell you at this moment she’s somewhere down about the old Tower, and there’s boatloads of blagyirds landing from the sea. Help me up, man, for I must be off. The story will keep. Losh, it’s very near the darkening. If you’re Alexis, you’re just about in time for a battle.”
But Dickson on his feet was but a frail creature. He was still deplorably giddy, and his legs showed an unpleasing tendency to crumple. “I’m fair done,” he moaned. “You see, I’ve been tied up all day to a tree and had two sore bashes on my head. Get you on that bicycle and hurry on, and I’ll hirple after you the best I can. I’ll direct you the road, and if you’re lucky you’ll find a Die-Hard about the village. Away with you, man, and never mind me.”
“We go together,” said the other quietly. “You can sit behind me and hang on to my waist. Before you turned up I had pretty well got the thing in order.”
Dickson in a fever of impatience sat by while the Russian put the finishing touches to the machine, and as well as his anxiety allowed put him in possession of the main facts of the story. He told of how he and Heritage had come to Dalquharter, of the first meeting with Saskia, of the trip to Glasgow with the jewels, of the exposure of Loudon the factor, of last night’s doings in the House, and of the journey that morning to the Mains of Garple. He sketched the figures on the scene — Heritage and Sir Archie, Dobson and his gang, the Gorbals Die-Hards. He told of the enemy’s plans so far as he knew them.
“Looked at from a business point of view,” he said, “the situation’s like this. There’s Heritage in the Tower, with Dobson, Leon, and Spidel sitting round him. Somewhere about the place there’s the Princess and Sir Archibald and three men with guns from the Mains. Dougal and his five laddies are running loose in the policies. And there’s four tinklers and God knows how many foreign ruffians pushing up from the Garplefoot, and a brig lying waiting to carry off the ladies. Likewise there’s the police, somewhere on the road, though the dear kens when they’ll turn up. It’s awful the incompetence of our Government, and the rates and taxes that high!... And there’s you and me by this roadside, and me no more use than a tattie-bogle ... That’s the situation, and the question is what’s our plan to be? We must keep the blagyirds in play till the police come, and at the same time we must keep the Princess out of danger. That’s why I’m wanting back, for they’ve sore need of a business head. Yon Sir Archibald’s a fine fellow, but I doubt he’ll be a bit rash, and the Princess is no’ to hold or bind. Our first job is to find Dougal and get a grip of the facts.”
“I am going to the Princess,” said the Russian.
“Ay, that’ll be best. You’ll be maybe able to manage her, for you’ll be well acquaint.”
“She is my kinswoman. She is also my affianced wife.”
“Keep us!” Dickson exclaimed, with a doleful thought of Heritage. “What ailed you then no’ to look after her better?”
“We have been long separated, because it was her will. She had work to do and disappeared from me, though I searched all Europe for her. Then she sent me word, when the danger became extreme, and summoned me to her aid. But she gave me poor directions, for she did not know her own plans very clearly. She spoke of a place called Darkwater, and I have been hunting half Scotland for it. It was only last night that I heard of Dalquharter and guessed that that might be the name. But I was far down in Galloway, and have ridden fifty miles today.”
“It’s a queer thing, but I wouldn’t take you for a Russian.”
Alexis finished his work and put away his tools.
“For the present,” he said, “I am an Englishman, till my country comes again to her senses. Ten years ago I left Russia, for I was sick of the foolishness of my class and wanted a free life in a new world. I went to Australia and made good as an engineer. I am a partner in a firm which is pretty well known even in Britain. When war broke out I returned to fight for my people, and when Russia fell out of the war, I joined the Australians in France and fought with them till the Armistice. And now I have only one duty left, to save the Princess and take her with me to my new home till Russia is a nation once more.”
Dickson whistled joyfully. “So Mr. Heritage was right. He aye said you were an Australian... And you’re a business man! That’s grand hearing and puts my mind at rest. You must take charge of the party at the House, for Sir Archibald’s a daft young lad and Mr. Heritage is a poet. I thought I would have to go myself, but I doubt I woul
d just be a hindrance with my dwaibly legs. I’d be better outside, watching for the police... Are you ready, sir?”
Dickson not without difficulty perched himself astride the luggage carrier, firmly grasping the rider round the middle. The machine started, but it was evidently in a bad way, for it made poor going till the descent towards the main Auchenlochan road. On the slope it warmed up and they crossed the Garple bridge at a fair pace. There was to be no pleasant April twilight, for the stormy sky had already made dusk, and in a very little the dark would fall. So sombre was the evening that Dickson did not notice a figure in the shadow of the roadside pines till it whistled shrilly on its fingers. He cried on Alexis to stop, and, this being accomplished with some suddenness, fell off at Dougal’s feet.
“What’s the news?” he demanded.
Dougal glanced at Alexis and seemed to approve his looks.
“Napoleon has just reported that three boatloads, making either twenty-three or twenty-four men — they were gey ill to count — has landed at Garplefit and is makin’ their way to the auld Tower. The tinklers warned Dobson and soon it’ll be a’ bye wi’ Heritage.”
“The Princess is not there?” was Dickson’s anxious inquiry.
“Na, na. Heritage is there his lone. They were for joinin’ him, but I wouldn’t let them. She came wi’ a man they call Sir Erchibald and three gamekeepers wi’ guns. I stoppit their cawr up the road and tell’t them the lie o’ the land. Yon Sir Erchibald has poor notions o’ strawtegy. He was for bangin’ into the auld Tower straight away and shootin’ Dobson if he tried to stop them. ‘Havers,’ say I, ‘let them break their teeth on the Tower, thinkin’ the leddy’s inside, and that’ll give us time, for Heritage is no’ the lad to surrender in a hurry.’”
