Complete Fictional Works of John Buchan (Illustrated)

by John Buchan

  “An incendiary and a spy!”

  “You’ve hit the mark, Nanty. Arch-incendiary and master-spy. Now that web has to be swept down and the spider destroyed.”

  Jock’s face had an earnest passion which made him suddenly an older and shrewder man. For the first time he reminded Nanty of his father.

  “That is a shocking tale,” he said. “This woman — is she wife or widow?”

  “She has a husband, and that is one of her chief assets. The other is the reputation she has built up for sentimental innocence. Her husband, Justin Cranmer, is a trumpery body, another cat’s-paw. Eben can tell you of him.”

  “A long, black-avised man,” said the Chief Fisher, “wi’ a skin like a candle-dowp. I’ve seen him twa-three times. When he’s at home he is either hunting the hills wi’ his dowgs, or lying as fou’ as the Baltic — at least that’s what they tell me. But the feck o’ the time he’s ranging the land at cockings and horse-racings.”

  “Ay,” said Jock, “but he’s the laird of Hungrygrain, and Hungrygrain is a godsend to his lady wife. She has estates of her own in Norfolk, so she is well-dowered, besides what her paymasters give her. But Norfolk is too conspicuous a place for her game, so her headquarters are shifted to the North. The devil might have made Hungrygrain for her purpose. It lies at the back end of a moorland glen called Yonderdale, and there’s no road but a drove-road within five miles. There’s a bit of a clachan, but the inhabitants are all Squire Cranmer’s folk, and a savage pack of heathens by all tales. There are no neighbours except a few drunken bonnet-lairds, and Cheviot hems it in like a dyke. Above all, it is not ten miles from the sea — take note of that, Nanty — a lonely bit of coast with a snug little harbour at a burn mouth. She is a noble spirit, her friends say, unequally yoked to a boor, but her wifely duty and her care for the poor tenant-bodies take her often to Hungrygrain. But when she is there this Methody fine lady queens it among poachers and black-fishers and tinklers who do her biddings and know fine that they would lose their tongues if they blabbed. . . . What do you think of my picture? It’s wilder than anything in Walter Scott or Lord Byron, but Eben will bear me out that it’s God’s truth.”

  “If Harry has gone there, surely he will learn the facts and be disillusioned.”

  “That is just what puzzles me. This morning we heard, never mind how, that he had arrived there yesterday. We had heard, too, some rumour of his quarrel with Wyse. He was looking for sanctuary no doubt, and Hungrygrain struck him as remote and secret. Very likely the woman knew nothing of his coming till he appeared, and may not have welcomed him. If she connived at it, then it looks as if she had made him a partner in her infamy.”

  “That I will never believe,” said Nanty firmly.

  “Well, put that question aside, for we shall soon be enlightened. Now you must hear more of Hungrygrain. Eben, you take up the tale.”

  “In the auld days afore the Union,” said the Chief Fisher, “there was a brisk smuggling trade across the Border. Ye’ll maybe have heard o’ that, Mr Lammas. Every second man in Jeddart, they say, was a free-trader. Well, Yonderdale was the hame o’ the business, and the laird o’ Hungrygrain the chief manager o’t, and the cotter-folk o’ Hungrygrain deep to their necks in it. They were a wild clan wi’ an ill name — the warst fighters at ilka fair from Stagshawbank to St Boswells, a thrawn lot that stuck thegither and made ony man’s quarrel the quarrel o’ a’. Weel, the Union came, but Yonderdale didna change its trade. It turned its eyes to the sea, and found a howff where it could land its bits o’ contraband and send them along the Border. Yondermouth is nae use, for the Water o’ Yonder taks a long bend to the south afore it wins to the sea, and besides, Yondermouth is a well-kenned fisher toun where lawless doings wad be bridled — a toun like our ain Leven or Anster. So they found what they wanted up north along the shore at a place they ca’ Hopcraw, where a burn comes in frae the hills. There’s deep water there for them that ken where to look for it, and there’s not a cot-house within three mile. Mair, by a straight road over the muir it’s no above ten mile frae Hungrygrain. The place is well kenned by us fishers, but it’s no our business to speak o’t. The gaugers, too, have a notion o’t, but they never seem to hit the right hour and the right corner, and mony a weary traivel they’ve had for small purpose. There’s nae better mart for the free trade on the east shore, and a’ the lairds frae Liddel to Till, aye and ower the Border too, get their tea and brandy and tobacco from the guid folk o’ Hopcraw.”

  “And that’s the channel through which this woman communicates with France?—”

  “One o’ them. Nae doubt there’s others — one maybe down in the Norfolk sands near her ain estates — but Hopcraw is the chief.”

  “What are your orders from Government?”

  “Just to watch — and report. We have word that one of her ploys is comin’ to a heid, and we hope to nip it, and bring to justice them that’s ‘sponsible.”

  “That will mean violence and fighting.”

  “Na, na. The Free Fishers are men o’ peace. Nae fechtin’ for us except in our ain canny way o’ business. There’s King’s ships that’ll dae what fechtin’ is needit, and there’s a plan by which we can get word to them.”

  “Then your purpose is to go to Hopcraw?”

  “No me,” said Eben with a slow smile which brought his brows down over his eyes. “To steer for Hopcraw wad be like kindling a beacon on the hilltops. We maun gang warily in this business, for Hungrygrain has plenty sharp een on the watch. That’s why I was sweir to come into this river o’ Tweed. I wadna trust the Berwick boats that carry the frostit saumons to London, for some o’ them are chief wi’ Hungrygrain and wad signal news o’ us if they suspected our job. Na, we’re for Youndermouth, where I’m well-kenned. Some o’ our Fife lads are out east at the Banks at the white-fishing, and what mair natural than that we should join them? We’ll hae some sma’ trouble wi’ a yaird that’ll take us in there for twa-three days to Davie Dimmock, the boat-builder’s, and while we’re lying snug we’ll send out spies like the auld Israelites.”

  Jock burst in.

  “Eben will keep the Merry Mouth in Yondermouth, and find some way of slipping up to Hopcraw and seeing what goes on there. Meantime Bob Muschat and I take a quiet step Yonderdale way. Ay, and you too, Nanty, for we need you to deal with Belses. There’s a ticklish job there for somebody.”

  “I cannot. I must be off at once to Hungrygrain by the shortest road. I tell you, there’s not a moment to lose, for Sir Turnour Wyse may get to him this very day.”

  “Remember your calling, Nanty,” said Jock. “Logic, my brave boy! The baronet is not going to pistol your Harry like a common cut-throat. Whatever mischief is on foot, we have a day or two of grace to prevent it. What good would you do if you posted off to Hungrygrain and hammered at the front door? They would only set the dogs on you, for you have no locus, as my father would say. You would find the folk there in an ill key, pestered by a bumptious lawyer, and maybe on the top of it the baronet damning their eyes and telling them they are dirt. What would you do in such a collieshangie? No, no, our way’s the best. The wind’s fair, and we’ll drop down the coast, and be in Yondermouth in the afternoon. There’s a grand moon, and at the darkening you and me and Bob will slip off up the water, and see what’s to be seen. They that work with Hungrygrain must take the tinkler’s road — the deep wood and the thick bracken and the long heather.”

  “Then for Heaven’s sake let us be off.”

  “You’re coming?”

  “I’m coming. And I warn you I’ll press the pace.”

  “God, Nanty, you’re a man after my heart,” Jock cried. “We’re in luck, Eben. We have the Law on our side, and now we’ve got the Gospel. The expeditionary force is complete, chaplain and all.”

  In the street they looked down Hide Hill towards the Sand Gate; it dropped steeply to a quay, beyond which the river lay like a broad band of light. The passers-by on the kerb had come to a halt, for over the cobbles
rattled a striking equipage. It was a broad chaise, drawn by two stout galloways, with a dicky behind in which a servant sat with folded arms. Sir Turnour had shed his dreadnought in the warm spring sunshine, and his shoulders showed trim and square on the box-seat. Rarely had Berwick seen a better-shaped coat, or a smarter beaver, or so complete a mastery of whip and ribbons, as he steered the pair at a good pace down the uneven street amid the fishcarts and country wagons.

  The three watched him as he reached the Sand Gate and turned west along the dock side.

  “He’s a comely body, your baronet,” said Eben, “and he can manage a horse. He’s for the English Gate and the Tweed brig.”

  “I wish I knew his purpose,” said Nanty. “For all we can tell he may be on his way to London.”

  Two of the onlookers were commenting on the sight, horsy-looking gentry in tight breeches and battered leggings.

  “Whae is the gentleman?” one asked. “I never saw beasts better guidit.”

  “I dinna ken,” was the answer. “He doesna belong hereways.”

  “For Newcastle, think ye?”

  “No him. He has gotten the pair that Davidson hires out for the Yetholm coursin’. Slugs on the high-road but graund on the braes. That ane’s no for Newcastle. He’s for the hills.”

  CHAPTER VI. In Which a Town-Clerk is Ill received

  Mr Duncan Dott, perched atop of the narrow gig of the King’s Arms, prepared to enjoy himself. His valise was left behind at the inn, for he proposed to return there in the evening, and had indeed bespoken for himself a snug little supper. His only baggage was his brown leather satchel of papers, which was securely wedged between himself and the driver. The morning was fresh, what wind there was blew from the north-west, and the ascending sun promised before noon the mellow warmth of spring. Only in the west, where at a great distance the valley was closed by a line of little hills, a thin cloudbank broke the even blue of the sky.

  “It’ll be a grand day,” he observed to his companion. “The wind’s in a dry airt.”

  The other pursed his lips.

  “Ye’ll maybe need your topcoat or night. I dinna like yon wee cluds, and it was ower bright this mornin’ when I was washin’ my face.”

  As they crossed the bridge of Tweed the tide was running and the salmon-cobles were straining at their moorings. Thereafter they entered a shining world, fields of bent noisy with young lambs, cot-houses snowy with fresh harling, hawthorns bursting into green, and on their left the sea, which had no colour but shone like a vast crystal with essential light. Mr Dott’s spirits soared, and he unbuttoned his great-coat so that the air could play about his throat.

  “England’s a fine country,” he remarked. “It’s the first time I’ve crossed the Border, and if it’s all like this I don’t blame our forbears for raiding it whiles to see what they could find. There’s sour bits in Scotland.”

  “There’s sour bits in England,” said the driver, a morose man called Niven. “Ye’re for Yonderdale? Wait till ye see it afore ye mak up your mind about England.”

  “What sort of a place is Yonderdale?” Mr Dott enquired.

  “Sour,” said the driver, and spat. “Sour I would ca’ it. A lang dreich glen — naething but burns and hill-faces — perishin’ cauld in winter, for the drifts at the top o’t dinna melt till May, and no that cheery in the best o’ weather. It’s ower high up in Cheviot for human habitation. What takes ye to Yonderdale, sir?”

  “Business. A small matter of business.”

  The other laughed.

  “It’s no muckle business gangs up Yonder water, except its ain kind o’ business, and I’ll wager that’s no your kind. Ye’re a lawyer, I take it? Well, there’s just the one sort o’ law in Yonderdale and that’s the stout arm and the holly cudgel. Ay, and waur. There’s sudden deaths up thereaways that nae coroner sits on. Ye’ll no ken what a coroner is, maybe? — he’s a kind of a procurator fiscal.”

  “Dearie me,” said Mr Dott. “That’s a bad account. Does your job take you often there?”

  “No above twice a year — wi’ a dealer in the back-end after the hogg lambs, or a farmer seekin’ store cattle. And Yonderdale doesna come muckle our way, neither. They’re queer folk and keep themselves to themselves, nae doubt wi’ good cause. What part o’ Yonderdale are ye for?”

  Mr Dott’s answer induced a whistle, a lugubrious sound which expressed something more than surprise.

  “Hungrygrain! Keep us, but what seek ye at Hungrygrain? Are ye acquaint wi’ the folks there? Are ye expectit?”

  “I have given notice of my coming,” said Mr Dott primly.

  The driver seemed to ponder. His taciturnity had given place to curiosity, for he proceeded to ply Mr Dott with questions, which that gentleman answered in monosyllables. He had become suddenly the confidential man of business. One question only he asked in return — had Niven ever seen or spoken to Squire Cranmer?

  “Spoken to him? No likely. But I’ve seen him a score o’ times, and I’ve heard enough about him to fill a book.”

  But what he had heard he showed no wish to communicate. “There’s an owercome in the hills, ‘queer like the folk o’ Hungrygrain,’ and if a’ tales be true the squire’s the queerest o’ the batch. If your business is wi’ him I wish ye weel, for he’s a kittle customer, and if ye’re servin’ a writ or onything unpleasant ye’ll be lucky to get awa’ wi’ hale banes. Dinna count on me, for I meddle not wi’ Hungrygrain. I’ll take ye there, which is my lawful calling, and syne ye maun fend for yoursel’.”

  Mr Dott’s spirits were a little dashed, especially as Niven with a fateful countenance continued to ingeminate the word “Hungrygrain.” They had left the shore road and were now in a country of sheep-walks, fields of grass bounded by drystone dykes, and now and then a common bright with furze and the young sprouts of heather. It was no longer the gleaming country of the morning, for, though the sun still shone, colour seemed to have gone out of the landscape, which now wore an air of bleakness and melancholy. Presently they topped a ridge, and looked across a shallow trough of bog and bent to the lift of a mountain range. On their left was the loom of woodlands with the sea beyond, and to their right a glimpse of a habitable farming country, but the immediate prospect was strangely wild and desolate. The mountains had a thick veil of cloud on their summits, a veil which seemed to be steadily dropping lower.

  “Cheviot,” said Niven, pointing with his whip. “And ill weather on its road. We’ll be drookit or we win hame. That’s the water o’ Yonder ye see in the howe, and Yonderdale begins where the twae hills hurkle thegither. Hungrygrain is at the backside o’ the bigger yin.”

  As they were about to descend into a hollow, there came a sound of wheels behind them, and Niven drew sharply into the roadside to allow another conveyance to pass. This was a broad chaise with a dicky behind in which a servant sat. In the driver’s seat was a figure more in keeping with Hyde Park or the Brighton road than with that moorland solitude. He acknowledged Niven’s courtesy by raising his whip, and the pair of horses, handled by a master, took the hill at a steady trot.

  “Now, whae the deevil is that?” Niven enquired. Thoughts of Hungrygrain seemed to have laid on him a spell of depression which was broken by the spectacle of this splendid gentleman. “He’s drivin’ the Red Lion galloways, and Davidson doesna lend them to a’ body. Man, he’s a provost at the job. Did ye see the way he managed the near beast when he was for shyin’ at the bog aik?”

  “I know who the gentleman is,” said Mr Dott. “He made himself useful this morning at the accident to the Edinburgh coach of which I told you. He is a sporting baronet — one Sir Turnour Wyse. What puzzles me is what he can want in Yonderdale.”

  “He’s no for Yonderdale. The Yonderdale turn is twae miles on, and this road gangs to mony places. Alnwick, for yin. Ay, he’ll be for the Duke’s at Alnwick. He’s no the breed that frequents Yonderdale.”

  The rain began before they reached the hills, a thin spring rain with little wind behind
it. It blanketed the view except for a few hundred yards of moor. Niven turned to his right up a stony rut like the track to a farm-town. Presently a knuckle of hill loomed through the mist, and the road descended through a coppice of wildwood to the edge of a stream which was running low in the spring drought.

  “The water o’ Yonder,” said Niven. “Aye when I’ve been here afore it has been running frae bank to brae. This is a dooms ill road, but Yonderdale doesna work muckle wi’ wheeled carriages. Pack-horses and shanks’s pony is mair its way o’t. We’ll draw up and eat our piece, sir, if ye’re agreeable, for we’re no above three miles frae Hungrygrain.”

  “Is there no inn?” asked Mr Dott, who had hoped for a dram with his bread and cheese.

  “There’s an inn, but it’s the other side o’ the water, and we’ll no trouble it the day. Purdey is the man that keeps it, and he’s not just precisely a friend o’ mine. If ye ca’d him an ill-tongued sauvage ye wadna be far wrong.”

  They ate their snack in the lee of a clump of rowens, a cold meal to which the weather made an indifferent kitchen. Soon the drizzle became a downpour, and in that funnel of a glen the wind gathered force, and drove the rain in spouts and sheets which searched out every corner of the travellers’ persons.

  “Let’s get on,” said Mr Dott, shaking a deluge from his hat. “My business will not take long, and then I’m for dry breeks and the fireside.” Niven, a sodden pillar of depression, whipped up his beast and the gig jolted out of the trees up a long incline.

  Even in the thick weather Mr Dott realised that he was coming into a different kind of country. He was conscious of open spaces around him instead of coverts. They passed a cottage or two, and the smell of peat-reek tantalised him with a hint of unattainable comfort. It had become colder and he shivered a little inside his great-coat. Three miles, Niven had said; then half an hour’s talk, a scart or two of the pen, and his face was set for his native Waucht.