Complete Fictional Works of John Buchan (Illustrated)

by John Buchan

  “Archie, you’re a brick,” was Lamancha’s tribute.

  “I’m very much afraid I’m a fool, but thank Heaven I’m not the only one. Sime,” he shouted in a voice of thunder, “what’s happened to tea?”

  The shout brought the one-armed butler and Shapp with the apparatus of the meal, and an immense heap of letters all addressed to Sir Archibald Roylance.

  “Hullo! the mail has arrived,” cried the master of the house. “Now let’s see what’s the news of John Macnab?”

  He hunted furiously among the correspondence, tearing open envelopes and distributing letters to the others with the rapidity of a conjurer. One little sealed packet he reserved to the last, and drew from it three missives bearing the same superscription.

  These he opened, glanced at, and handed to Lamancha.

  “Read ‘em out, Charles,” he said. “It’s the answers at last.”

  Lamancha read slowly the first document, of which this is the text:

  “Glenraden Castle, Strathlarrig, Aug. — , 19 —

  “Sir, I have received your insolent letter. I do not know what kind of rascal you may be, except that you have the morals of a bandit and the assurance of a halfpenny journalist. But since you seem in your perverted way to be a sportsman, I am not the man to refuse your challenge. My reply is, sir, damn your eyes and have a try. I defy you to kill a stag in my forest between midnight on the 28th of August and midnight of the 30th. I will give instructions to my men to guard my marches, and if you should be roughly handled by them you have only to blame yourself.

  “Yours faithfully, Alastair Raden.

  “John Macnab, Esq.”

  “That’s a good fellow,” said Archie with conviction. “Just the sort of letter I’d write myself. He takes things in the proper spirit. But it’s a blue look-out for your chances, my lads. What old Raden doesn’t’ know about deer isn’t knowledge.”

  Lamancha read the second reply:

  “Strathlarrig House, Strathlarrig, Aug. — , 19 — .

  “My Dear Sir,

  “Your letter was somewhat of a surprise, but as I am not yet familiar with the customs of this country, I forbear to enlarge on this point, and since you have marked it ‘Confidential’ I am unable to take advice. You state that you intend to kill a salmon in the Strathlarrig water between midnight on September 1 and midnight on September 3, this salmon, if killed, to remain my property. I have consulted such books as might give me guidance, and I am bound to state that in my view the laws of Scotland are hostile to your suggested enterprise. Nevertheless, I do not take my stand on the law, for I presume that your proposition is conceived in a sporting spirit, and that you dare me to stop you. Well sir, I will see you on that hand. The fishing is not that good at present that I am inclined to quarrel about one salmon. I give you leave to use every method that may occur to you to capture that fish, and I promise to use every method that may occur to me to prevent you, In your letter you undertake to use only ‘legitimate means.’ I would have pleasure in meeting you in the same spirit, but I reckon that all means are counted legitimate in the capture of poachers.

  “Cordially, Junius Theodore Bandicott.

  “Mr. J. Macnab.”

  “That’s the young’un,” Archie observed. “The old man was christened ‘Acheson,’ and don’t take any interest in fishin’. He spends his time in lookin’ for Norse remains.”

  “He seems a decent sort of fellow,” said Palliser-Yeates, “but I don’t quite like the last sentence. He’ll probably try shooting, same as his countrymen once did on the Beauly. Whoever gets this job will have some excitement for his money.”

  Lamancha read out the last letter:

  “227 North Melville Street, Edinburgh, Aug. — , 19 —

  “Sir, Re Haripol Forest.

  “Our client, the Right Honourable Lord Claybody, has read to us on the telephone your letter of Aug. — and has desired us to reply to it. We are instructed to say that our client is at a loss to understand how to take your communication, whether as a piece of impertinence or as a serious threat. If it is the latter, and you persist in your intention, we are instructed to apply to the Court for a summary interdict to prevent your entering upon his lands. We would also point out that under the Criminal Law of Scotland, any person whatsoever who commits a trespass in the daytime by entering upon any land without leave of the proprietor, in pursuit of, inter alia, deer, is liable to a fine of two pounds, while, if such person have his face blackened, or if five or more persons acting in concert commit the trespass, the penalty is five pounds (2 & 3 William IV, C. 68). We are, sir, Your obedient servants, Prosser, McKelpie, and MacLymont.

  “John Macnab, Esq.”

  Lamancha laughed. “Is that good law, Ned?”

  Leithen read the letter again. “I suppose so. Deer being ferae naturae, there is no private property in them or common law crime in killing them, and the only remedy is to prevent trespass in pursuit of them or to punish the trespasser.”

  “It seems to me that you get off pretty lightly,” said Archie. “Two quid is not much in the way of a fine, for I don’t suppose you want to black your faces or march five deep into Haripol... But what a rotten sportsman old Claybody is!”

  Palliser-Yeates heaved a sigh of apparent relief. “I am bound to say the replies are better than I expected. It will be a devil of a business, though, to circumvent that old Highland chief, and that young American sounds formidable. Only, if we’re caught out there, we’re dealing with sportsmen and can appeal to their higher nature, you know. Claybody is probably the easiest proposition so far as getting a stag is concerned, but if we’re nobbled by him we needn’t look for mercy. Still, it’s only a couple of pounds.”

  “You’re an ass, John,” said Leithen. “It’s only a couple of pounds for John Macnab. But if these infernal Edinburgh lawyers get on the job, it will be a case of producing the person of John Macnab, and then we’re all in the cart. Don’t you realise that in this fool’s game we simply cannot afford to lose — none of us?”

  “That,” said Lamancha, “is beyond doubt the truth, and it’s just there that the fun comes in.”

  The reception of the three letters had brightened the atmosphere. Each man had now something to think about, and, till it was time to dress for dinner, each was busy with sheets of the Ordnance maps. The rain had begun again, the curtains were drawn, and round a good fire of peats they read and smoked and dozed. Then they had hot baths, and it was a comparatively cheerful and very hungry party that assembled in the dining-room. Archie proposed champagne, but the offer was unanimously declined. “We ought to be in training,” Lamancha warned him. “Keep the Widow for the occasions when we need comforting. They’ll come all right.”

  Palliser-Yeates was enthusiastic about the food. “I must say, you do us very well,” he told his host. “These haddocks are the best things I’ve ever eaten. How do you manage to get fresh sea-fish here?”

  Archie appealed to Sime. “They come from Inverlarrig, Sir Erchibald,” said the butler. “There’s a wee laddie comes up here selling haddies verra near every day.”

  “Bless my soul, Sime. I thought no one came up here. You know my orders.”

  “This is just a tinker laddie, Sir Erchibald. He sleeps in a cairt down about Larrigmore. He just comes wi’ his powny and awa’ back, and doesna’ bide twae minutes. Mistress Lithgow was anxious for haddies, for she said gentlemen got awfu’ tired of saumon and trout.’

  “All right, Sime. I’ll speak to Mrs. Lithgow. She’d better tell him we don’t want any more. By the way, we ought to see Lithgow after dinner. Tell him to come to the smoking-room.”

  When Sime had put the port on the table and withdrawn, Leithen lifted up his voice.

  “Look here, before we get too deep into this thing, let’s make sure that we know where we are. We’re all three turned up here — why, I don’t know. But there’s still time to go back. We realise now what we’re in for. Are you clear in your minds that you want to go o
n?”

  “I am,” said Lamancha doggedly. “I’m out for a cure. Hang it, I feel a better man already.”

  “I suppose your profession makes you take risks,” said Leithen dryly, “Mine doesn’t. What about you, John?”

  Palliser-Yeates shifted uneasily in his chair. “I don’t want to go on. I feel no kind of keenness, and my feet are rather cold. And yet — you know — I should feel rather ashamed to turn back.”

  Archie uplifted his turbaned head. “That’s how I feel, though I’m not on myself in this piece. We’ve given hostages, and the credit of John Macnab is at stake. We’ve dared old Raden and young Bandicott, and we can’t decently cry off. Besides, I’m advertised as a smallpox patient, and it would be a pity to make a goat of myself for nothing. Mind you, I stand to lose as much as anybody, if we bungle things.”

  Leithen had the air of bowing to the inevitable. “Very well, that’s settled. But I wish to Heaven I saw myself safely out of it. My only inducement to go on is to score off that bounder Claybody. He and his attorney’s letter put my hackles up.”

  In the smoking-room Lamancha busied himself with preparing three slips of paper and writing on them three names.

  “We must hold a council of war,” he said. “First of all, we have taken measures to keep our presence here secret. My man Shapp is all right. What about your people, Archie?”

  “Sime and Carfrae have been warned, and you may count on them. They’re the class of lads that ask no questions. So are the Lithgows. We’ve no neighbours, and they’re anyway not the gossiping kind, and I’ve put them on their Bible oath. I fancy they think the reason is politics. They’re a trifle scared of you, Charles, and your reputation, for they’re not accustomed to hidin’ Cabinet Ministers in the scullery. Lithgow’s a fine crusted old Tory.”

  “Good. Well, we’d better draw for beats, and get Lithgow in.”

  The figure that presently appeared before them was a small man, about fifty years of age, with a great breadth of shoulder and a massive face decorated with a wispish tawny beard. His mouth had the gravity and primness of an elder of the Kirk, but his shrewd blue eyes were not grave. The son of a Tweeddale shepherd who had emigrated years before to a cheviot farm in Sutherland, he was in every line and feature the Lowlander, and his speech had still the broad intonation of the Borders. But all his life had been spent in the Highlands on this and that deer forest, and as a young stalker he had been picked out by Jim Tarras for his superior hill craft. To Archie his chief recommendation was that he was a passionate naturalist, who was as eager to stalk a rare bird with a field-glass as to lead a rifle up to deer. Other traits will appear in the course of this narrative; but it may be noted here that he was a voracious reader and in the long winter nights had amassed a store of varied knowledge, which was patently improving his master’s mind. Archie was accustomed to quote him for most of his views on matters other than ornithology and war.

  “Do you mind going over to that corner and shuffling these slips? Now, John, you draw first.”

  Mr. Palliser-Yeates extracted a slip from Lithgow’s massive hand.

  “Glenraden,” he cried. “Whew, I’m for it this time.”

  Leithen drew next. His slip read Strathlarrig.

  “Thank God, I’ve got old Claybody,” said Lamancha. “Unless you want him very badly, Ned?”

  Leithen shook his head. “I’m content. It would be a bad start to change the draw.”

  “Sit down, Wattie,” said Archie. “Here’s a dram for you. We’ve summoned you to a consultation. I daresay you’ve been wonderin’ what all this fuss about secrecy has meant. I’m going to tell you. You were with Jim Tarras, and you’ve often told me about his poachin’. Well, these three gentlemen want to have a try at the same game. They’re tired of ordinary sport, and want something more excitin’. It wouldn’t do, of course, for them to appear under their real names, so they’ve invented a nom de guerre — that’s a bogus name, you know. They call themselves collectively, as you might say, John Macnab. John Macnab writes from London to three proprietors, same as Jim Tarras used to do, and proposes to take a deer or a salmon on their property between certain dates. There’s a copy of the letter, and here are the replies that arrived tonight. Just you read ‘em.”

  Lithgow, without moving a muscle of his face, took the documents. He nodded approvingly over the original letter. He smiled broadly at Colonel Raden’s epistle, puzzled a little at Mr. Bandicott’s, and wrinkled his brows over that of the Edinburgh solicitors. Then he stared into the fire, and emitted short grunts which might have equally well been chuckles or groans.

  “Well, what do you think of the chances?” asked Archie at length.

  “Would the gentlemen be good shots?” asked Lithgow.

  “Mr Palliser-Yeates, who has drawn Glenraden, is a very good shot,” Archie replied, “and he has stalked on nearly every forest in Scotland. Lord Lamancha — Charles, you’re pretty good, aren’t you?”

  “Fair,” was the answer. “Good on my day.”

  “And Sir Edward Leithen is a considerable artist on the river. Now, Wattie, you understand that they want to win — want to get the stags and the salmon — but it’s absolute sheer naked necessity that, whether they fail or succeed, they mustn’t be caught. John Macnab must remain John Macnab, an unknown blighter from London. You know who Lord Lamancha is, but perhaps you don’t know that Sir Edward Leithen is a great lawyer, and Mr. Pallisers-Yeates is one of the biggest bankers in the country.”

  “I ken all about the gentlemen,” said Lithgow gravely. “I was readin’ Mr Yeates’s letter in The Times about the debt we was owin’ America, and I mind fine Sir Edward’s speeches in Parliament about the Irish Constitution. I didna altogether agree with him.”

  “Good for you, Wattie. You see, then, how desperately important it is that the thing shouldn’t get out. Mr Tarras didn’t much care if he was caught, but if John Macnab is uncovered there will be a high and holy row. Now you grasp the problem, and you’ve got to pull up your socks and think it out. I don’t want your views to-night, but I should like to have your notion of the chances in a general way. What’s the bettin’? Twenty to one against?”

  “Mair like a thousand,” said Lithgow grimly. “It will be verra, verra deeficult. It will want a deal o’ thinkin’.” Then he added, “Mr Tarras was an awfu’ grand shot. He would kill a runnin’ beast at fower hundred yards — aye, he could make certain of it.”

  “Good Lord, I’m not in that class,” Palliser-Yeates exclaimed.

  “Aye, and he was more than a grand shot. He could creep up to a sleepin’ beast in the dark and pit a knife in its throat. The sauvages in Africa had learned him that. There was plenty o’ times when him and me were out that it was no possible to use the rifle.”

  “We can’t compete there,” said Lamancha dolefully.

  “But I wad not say it was impossible,” Lithgow added more briskly. “It will want a deal o’ thinkin’. It might be done on Haripol — I wadna say but it might be done, but yon auld man at Glenraden will be ill to get the better of. And the Strathlarrig water is an easy water to watch. Ye’ll be for only takin’ shootable beasts, like Mr Tarras, and ye’ll not be wantin’ to cleek a fish? It might be not so hard to get a wee staggie, or to sniggle a salmon in one of the deep pots.”

  “No, we must play the game by the rules. We’re not poachers.”

  “Then it will be verra, verra deeficult.”

  “You understand,” put in Lamancha, “that, though we count on your help, you yourself mustn’t be suspected. It’s as important for you as for us to avoid suspicion, for if they got you it would implicate your master, and that mustn’t happen on any account.”

  “I ken that. It will be verra, verra deeficult. I said the odds were a thousand to one, but I think ten thousand wad be liker the thing.”

  “Well, go and sleep on it, and we’ll see you in the morning. And tell your wife I don’t want any boys comin’ up to the house with fish. She must send else
where and buy ‘em. Good-night, Wattie.”

  When Lithgow had withdrawn the four men sat silent and meditative in their chairs. One would rise now and then and knock out his pipe, but scarcely a word was spoken. It is to be presumed that the thoughts of each were on the task in hand, but Leithen’s must have wandered. “By the way, Archie,” he said, “I saw a very pretty girl on the road this afternoon, riding a yellow pony. Who could she be?”

  “Lord knows!” said Archie. “Probably one of the Raden girls. I haven’t seen ‘em yet.”

  When the clock struck eleven Sir Archie arose and ordered his guests to bed.

  “I think my toothache is gone,” he said, switching off his turban and revealing a ruffled head and scarlet cheek. Then he muttered: “A thousand to one! Ten thousand to one! It can’t be done, you know. We’ve got to find some way of shortenin’ the odds!”

  CHAPTER 3. RECONNAISSANCE

  Rosy-fingered Dawn, when, attended by mild airs and a sky of Italian blue, she looked in at Crask next morning, found two members of the household already astir. Mr Palliser-Yeates, coerced by Wattie Lithgow, was starting with bitter self-condemnation to prospect what his guide called “the yont side o’ Glenraden.” A quarter of an hour later Lamancha, armed with a map and a telescope, departed alone for the crest of hill behind which lay the Haripol forest. After that peace fell on the place, and it was not till the hour of ten that Sir Edward Leithen descended for breakfast.

  The glory of the morning had against his convictions made him cheerful. The place smelt so good within and without, Mrs Lithgow’s scones were so succulent, the bacon so crisp, and Archie, healed of the toothache, was so preposterous and mirthful a figure that Leithen found a faint zest again in the contemplation of the future. When Archie advised him to get busy about the Larrig he did not complain, but accompanied his host to the gun-room, where he studied attentively on a large-scale map the three miles of the stream in the tenancy of Mr Bandicott.