Complete Fictional Works of John Buchan (Illustrated)

by John Buchan

  It so happened in the early summer, when the land was green and the trout plashed in the river, that Her Majesty’s Government saw fit to appeal to an intelligent country. Among a people whose politics fight hard with their religion for a monopoly of their interests, feeling ran high and brotherly kindness departed. Houses were divided against themselves. Men formerly of no consideration found themselves suddenly important, and discovered that their intellects and conscience, which they had hitherto valued at little, were things of serious interest to their betters. The lurid light of publicity was shed upon the lives of the rival candidates; men formerly accounted worthy and respectable were proved no better than white sepulchres; and each man was filled with a morbid concern for his fellow’s character and beliefs.

  The farmer of Clachlands called a meeting of his labourers in the great dusty barn, which had been the scene of many similar gatherings. His speech on the occasion was rigorous and to the point. ‘Ye are a’ my men,’ he said, ‘an’ I’ll see that ye vote richt. Y’re uneddicated folk, and ken naething aboot the matter, sae ye just tak’ my word for’t, that the Tories are in the richt and vote accordingly. I’ve been a guid maister to ye, and it’s shurely better to pleesure me, than a wheen leein’ scoondrels whae tramp the country with leather bags and printit trash.’

  Then arose from the back the ploughman, strong in his convictions. ‘Listen to me, you men,’ says he; ‘just vote as ye think best. The maister’s a guid maister, as he says, but he’s nocht to dae wi’ your votin’. It’s what they ca’ inteemedation to interfere wi’ onybody in this matter. So mind that, an’ vote for the workin’-man an’ his richts.’ Then ensued a war of violent words.

  ‘Is this a meetin’ in my barn, or a pennywaddin?’

  ‘Ca ‘t what ye please. I canna let ye mislead the men.’

  ‘Whae talks about misleadin? Is’t misleadin’ to lead them richt?’

  ‘The question,’ said the ploughman solemnly, ‘is what you ca’ richt.’

  ‘William Laverhope, if ye werena a guid plooman, ye wad gang post-haste oot o’ here the morn.’

  ‘I carena what ye say. I’ll stand up for the richts o’ thae men.’ Men!’ — this with deep scorn. ‘I could mak’ better men than thae wi’ a stick oot o’ the plantin’.’

  ‘Ay, ye say that noo, an’ the morn ye’ll be ca’in’ ilka yin o’ them Mister, a’ for their votes.’

  The farmer left in dignified disgust, vanquished but still dangerous; the ploughman in triumph mingled with despair. For he knew that his fellow-labourers cared not a whit for politics, but would follow to the letter their master’s bidding.

  The next morning rose clear and fine. There had been a great rain for the past few days, and the burns were coming down broad and surly. The Clachlands Water was chafing by bank and bridge and threatening to enter the hay-field, and every little ditch and sheep-drain was carrying its tribute of peaty water to the greater flood. The farmer of Clachlands, as he looked over the landscape from the doorstep of his dwelling, marked the state of the weather and pondered over it.

  He was not in a pleasant frame of mind that morning. He had been crossed by a ploughman, his servant. He liked the man, and so the obvious way of dealing with him — by making things uncomfortable or turning him off — was shut against him. But he burned to get the upper hand of him, and discomfit once for all one who had dared to question his wisdom and good sense. If only he could get him to vote on the other side — but that was out of the question. If only he could keep him from voting — that was possible but unlikely. He might forcibly detain him, in which case he would lay himself open to the penalties of the law, and be nothing the gainer. For the victory which he desired was a moral one, not a triumph of force. He would like to circumvent him by cleverness, to score against him fairly and honourably on his own ground. But the thing was hard, and, as it seemed to him at the moment, impossible.

  Suddenly, as he looked over the morning landscape, a thought struck him and made him slap his legs and chuckle hugely. He walked quickly up and down the gravelled walk. ‘Losh, it’s guid. I’ll dae’t. I’ll dae’t, if the weather juist hauds.’

  His unseemly mirth was checked by the approach of someone who found the farmer engaged in the minute examination of gooseberry leaves. ‘I’m concerned aboot thae busses,’ he was saying; ‘they’ve been ill lookit to, an’ we’ll no hae half a crop.’ And he went off, still smiling, and spent a restless forenoon in the Gledsmuir market.

  In the evening he met the ploughman, as he returned from the turnip-singling, with his hoe on his shoulder. The two men looked at one another with the air of those who know that all is not well between them. Then the farmer spoke with much humility.

  ‘I maybe spoke rayther severe yestreen,’ he said. ‘I hope I didna hurt your feelings.’

  ‘Na, na! No me!’ said the ploughman airily.

  ‘Because I’ve been thinking ower the matter, an’ I admit that a man has a richt to his ain thochts. A’body should hae principles an’ stick to them,’ said the farmer, with the manner of one making a recondite quotation.

  ‘Ay,’ he went on, ‘I respect ye, William, for your consistency. Ye’re an example to us a’.’

  The other shuffled and looked unhappy. He and his master were on the best of terms, but these unnecessary compliments were not usual in their intercourse. He began to suspect, and the farmer, who saw his mistake, hastened to change the subject.

  ‘Graund weather for the fishin’,’ said he.

  ‘Oh, is it no?’ said the other, roused to excited interest by this home topic. ‘I tell ye by the morn they’ll be takin’ as they’ve never ta’en this ‘ear. Doon in the big pool in the Clachlands Water, at the turn o’ the turnip-field, there are twae or three pounders, and aiblins yin o’ twae pund. I saw them mysel’ when the water was low. It’s ower big the noo, but when it gangs doon the morn, and gets the colour o’ porter, I’se warrant I could whup them oot o’ there wi’ the flee.’

  ‘D’ ye say sae?’ said the farmer, sweetly. ‘Weel, it’s a lang time since I tried the fishin’, but I yince was keen on’t. Come in bye, William; I’ve something ye micht like to see.’

  From a corner he produced a rod, and handed it to the other. It was a very fine rod indeed, one which the owner had gained in a fishing competition many years before, and treasured accordingly. The ploughman examined it long and critically. Then he gave his verdict. It’s the brawest rod I ever saw, wi’ a fine hickory butt, an’ guid greenhert tap and middle. It wad cast the sma’est flee, and haud the biggest troot.’

  ‘Weel,’ said the farmer, genially smiling, ‘ye have a half-holiday the morn when ye gang to the poll. There’ll be plenty o’ time in the evening to try a cast wi”t. I’ll lend it ye for the day.’

  The man’s face brightened. ‘I wad tak’ it verra kindly,’ he said, ‘if ye wad. My ain yin is no muckle worth, and, as ye say, I’ll hae time for a cast the morn’s nicht.’

  ‘Dinna mention it. Did I ever let ye see my flee-book? Here it is,’ and he produced a thick flannel book from a drawer. ‘There’s a maist miscellaneous collection, for a’ waters an’ a’ weathers. I got a heap o’ them frae auld Lord Manorwater, when I was a laddie, and used to cairry his basket.’

  But the ploughman heeded him not, being deep in the examination of its mysteries. Very gingerly he handled the tiny spiders and hackles, surveying them with the eye of a connoisseur.

  ‘If there’s anything there ye think at a’ like the water, I’ll be verra pleased if ye’ll try’t.’

  The other was somewhat put out by this extreme friendliness. At another time he would have refused shamefacedly, but now the love of sport was too strong in him. ‘Ye’re far ower guid,’ he said; ‘thae twae paitrick wings are the verra things I want, an’ I dinna think I’ve ony at hame. I’m awfu’ gratefu’ to ye, an’ I’ll bring them back the morn’s nicht.’

  ‘Guid-e’en,’ said the farmer, as he opened the door, ‘an’ I wish ye may hae a gu
id catch.’ And he turned in again, smiling sardonically.

  The next morning was like the last, save that a little wind had risen, which blew freshly from the west. White cloudlets drifted across the blue, and the air was as clear as spring-water. Down in the hollow the roaring torrent had sunk to a full, lipping stream, and the colour had changed from a turbid yellow to a clear, delicate brown. In the town of Gledsmuir, it was a day of wild excitement, and the quiet Clachlands road bustled with horses and men. The labourers in the field scarce stopped to look at the passers, for in the afternoon they too would have their chance, when they might journey to the town in all importance, and record their opinions of the late Government.

  The ploughman of Clachlands spent a troubled fore-noon. His nightly dreams had been of landing great fish, and now his waking thoughts were of the same. Politics for the time were forgotten. This was the day which he had looked forward to for so long, when he was to have been busied in deciding doubtful voters, and breathing activity into the ranks of his cause. And lo! the day had come and found his thoughts elsewhere. For all such things are, at the best, of fleeting interest, and do not stir men otherwise than sentimentally; but the old kindly love of field-sports, the joy in the smell of the earth and the living air, lie very close to a man’s heart. So this apostate, as he cleaned his turnip rows, was filled with the excitement of the sport, and had no thoughts above the memory of past exploits and the anticipation of greater to come.

  Mid-day came, and with it his release. He roughly calculated that he could go to the town, vote, and be back in two hours, and so have the evening clear for his fishing. There had never been such a day for the trout in his memory, so cool and breezy and soft, nor had he ever seen so glorious a water. ‘If ye dinna get a fou basket the nicht, an’ a feed the morn, William Laverhope, your richt hand has forgot its cunning,’ said he to himself.

  He took the rod carefully out, put it together, and made trial casts on the green. He tied the flies on a cast and put it ready for use in his own primitive fly-book, and then bestowed the whole in the breastpocket of his coat. He had arrayed himself in his best, with a white rose in his button-hole, for it behoved a man to be well dressed on such an occasion as voting. But yet he did not start. Some fascination in the rod made him linger and try it again and again.

  Then he resolutely laid it down and made to go. But something caught his eye — the swirl of the stream as it left the great pool at the hay-field, or the glimpse of still, gleaming water. The impulse was too strong to be resisted. There was time enough and to spare. The pool was on his way to the town, he would try one cast ere he started, just to see if the water was good. So, with rod on his shoulder, he set off.

  Somewhere in the background a man, who had been watching his movements, turned away, laughing silently, and filling his pipe.

  A great trout rose to the fly in the hay-field pool, and ran the line up-stream till he broke it. The ploughman swore deeply, and stamped on the ground with irritation. His blood was up, and he prepared for battle. Carefully, skilfully he fished, with every nerve on tension and ever-watchful eyes. Meanwhile, miles off in the town the bustle went on, but the eager fisherman by the river heeded it not.

  Late in the evening, just at the darkening, a figure arrayed in Sunday clothes, but all wet and mud-stained, came up the road to the farm. Over his shoulder he carried a rod, and in one hand a long string of noble trout. But the expression on his face was not triumphant; a settled melancholy overspread his countenance, and he groaned as he walked.

  Mephistopheles stood by the garden-gate, smoking and surveying his fields. A well-satisfied smile hovered about his mouth, and his air was the air of one well at ease with the world.

  ‘Weel, I see ye’ve had guid sport,’ said he to the melancholy Faust. ‘By-the-bye, I didna notice ye in the toun. And losh! man, what in the warld have ye dune to your guid claes?’

  The other made no answer. Slowly he took the rod to pieces and strapped it up; he took the fly-book from his pocket; he selected two fish from the heap; and laid the whole before the farmer.

  ‘There ye are,’ said he, ‘and I’m verra much obleeged to ye for your kindness.’ But his tone was of desperation and not of gratitude; and his face, as he went onward, was a study in eloquence repressed.

  The Herd of Standlan

  Black and White, 1896

  When the wind is nigh and the moon is high

  And the mist on the riverside,

  Let such as fare have a very good care

  Of the Folk who come to ride.

  For they may meet with the riders fleet

  Who fare from the place of dread;

  And hard it is for a mortal man

  To sort at ease with the Dead.

  from The Ballad of Grey Weather

  WHEN STANDLAN BURN leaves the mosses and hags which gave it birth, it tumbles over a succession of falls into a deep, precipitous glen, whence in time it issues into a land of level green meadows, and finally finds its rest in the Gled. Just at the opening of the ravine there is a pool shut in by high, dark cliffs, and black even on the most sunshiny day. The rocks are never dry but always black with damp and shadow. There is scarce any vegetation save stunted birks, juniper bushes, and draggled fern; and the hoot of owls and the croak of hooded crows is seldom absent from the spot. It is the famous Black Linn where in winter sheep stray and are never more heard of, and where more than once an unwary shepherd has gone to his account. It is an Inferno on the brink of a Paradise, for not a stone’s throw off is the green, lawn-like turf, the hazel thicket, and the broad, clear pools, by the edge of which on that July day the Herd of Standlan and I sat drowsily smoking and talking of fishing and the hills. There he told me this story, which I here set down as I remember it, and as it bears repetition.

  ‘D’ye mind Airthur Morrant?’ said the shepherd, suddenly.

  I did remember Arthur Mordaunt. Ten years past he and I had been inseparables, despite some half-dozen summers difference in age. We had fished and shot together, and together we had tramped every hill within thirty miles. He had come up from the South to try sheep-farming, and as he came of a great family and had no need to earn his bread, he found the profession pleasing. Then irresistible fate had swept me southward to college, and when after two years I came back to the place, his father was dead and he had come into his own. The next I heard of him was that in politics he was regarded as the most promising of the younger men, one of the staunchest and ablest upstays of the Constitution. His name was rapidly rising into prominence, for he seemed to exhibit that rare phenomenon of a man of birth and culture in direct sympathy with the wants of the people.

  ‘You mean Lord Brodakers?’ said I.

  ‘Dinna call him by that name,’ said the shepherd, darkly. ‘I hae nae thocht o’ him now. He’s a disgrace to his country, servin’ the Deil wi’ baith hands. But nine year syne he was a bit innocent callant wi’ nae Tory deevilry in his heid. Well, as I was sayin’, Airthur Morrant has cause to mind that place till his dying day’; and he pointed his finger to the Black Linn.

  I looked up the chasm. The treacherous water, so bright and joyful at our feet, was like ink in the great gorge. The swish and plunge of the cataract came like the regular beating of a clock, and though the weather was dry, streams of moisture seamed the perpendicular walls. It was a place eerie even on that bright summer’s day.

  ‘I don’t think I ever heard the story,’ I said casually.

  ‘Maybe no,’ said the shepherd. ‘It’s no yin I like to tell’; and he puffed sternly at his pipe, while I awaited the continuation.

  ‘Ye see it was like this,’ he said, after a while. ‘It was just the beginning o’ the back-end, and that year we had an awfu’ spate o’ rain. For near a week it poured hale water, and a’ doon by Drumeller and the Mossfennan haughs was yae muckle loch. Then it stopped, and an awfu’ heat came on. It dried the grund in nae time, but it hardly touched the burns; and it was rale queer to be pourin’ wi’ sweat
and the grund aneath ye as dry as a potato-sack, and a’ the time the water neither to haud nor bind. A’ the waterside fields were clean stripped o’ stooks, and a guid wheen hay-ricks gaed doon tae Berwick, no to speak o’ sheep and nowt beast. But that’s anither thing.

  ‘Weel, ye’ll mind that Airthur was terrible keen on fishing. He wad gang oot in a’ weather, and he wasna feared for ony mortal or naitural thing. Dod, I’ve seen him in Gled wi’ the water rinnin’ ower his shouthers yae cauld March day playin’ a saumon. He kenned weel aboot the fishing, for he had traivelled in Norroway and siccan outlandish places, where there’s a heap o’ big fish. So that day — and it was a Setterday tae and far ower near the Sabbath — he maun gang awa’ up Standlan Burn wi’ his rod and creel to try his luck.

  ‘I was bidin’ at that time, as ye mind, in the wee cot-house at the back o’ the faulds. I was alane, for it was three year afore I mairried Jess, and I wasna begun yet to the coortin’. I had been at Gledsmuir that day for some o’ the new stuff for killing sheep-mawks, and I wasna very fresh on my legs when I gaed oot after my tea that night to hae a look at the hill-sheep. I had had a bad year on the hill. First the lambin’-time was snaw, snaw ilka day, and I lost mair than I wad like to tell. Syne the grass a’ summer was so short wi’ the drought that the puir beasts could scarcely get a bite and were as thin as pipe-stapples. And then, to crown a’, auld Will Broun, the man that helpit me, turned ill wi’ his back, and had to bide at hame. So I had twae man’s work on yae man’s shouthers, and was nane so weel pleased.

  As I was saying, I gaed oot that nicht, and after lookin’ a’ the Dun Rig and the Yellow Mire and the back o’ Cramait Craig, I cam down the burn by the road frae the auld faulds. It was geyan dark, being about seven o’clock o’ a September nicht, and I keepit weel back frae that wanchancy hole o’ a burn. Weel, I was comin’ kind o’ quick, thinkin’ o’ supper and a story book that I was readin’ at the time, when just abune that place there, at the foot o’ the Linn, I saw a man fishing. I wondered what ony body in his senses could be daein’ at that time o’ nicht in sic a dangerous place, so I gave him a roar and bade him come back. He turned his face round and I saw in a jiffey that it was Mr. Airthur.