Complete Fictional Works of John Buchan (Illustrated)

by John Buchan

  ‘“O, sir,” I cried, “What for are ye fishing there? The water’s awfu’ dangerous, and the rocks are far ower slid.”

  ‘“Never mind, Scott,’ he roars back cheery-like. “I’ll take care o’ mysel’.”

  ‘I lookit at him for twa-three meenutes, and then I saw by his rod he had yin on, and a big yin tae. He ran it up and doon the pool, and he had uncommin wark wi”t, for it was strong and there was little licht. But bye and bye he got it almost tae his feet, and was just about to lift it oot when a maist awfu thing happened. The tackets o’ his boots maun hae slithered on the stane, for the next thing I saw was Mr. Airthur in the muckle hungry water.

  ‘I dinna exactly ken what happened after that, till I found myself on the very stone he had slipped off. I maun hae come doon the face o’ the rocks, a thing I can scarcely believe when I look at them, and a thing no man ever did afore. At ony rate I ken I fell the last fifteen feet or sae, and lichted on my left airm, for I felt it crack like a rotten branch, and an awfu’ sairness ran up it.

  ‘Now, the pool is a whirlpool as ye ken, and if anything fa’s in, the water first smashes it against the muckle rock at the foot, then it brings it round below the fall again, and syne at the second time it carries it doon the burn. Weel, that was what happened to Mr. Airthur. I heard his heid gang dunt on the stane wi’ a sound that made me sick. This must hae dung him clean senseless, and indeed it was a wonder it didna knock his brains oot. At ony rate there was nae mair word o’ swimming, and he was swirled round below the fa’ just like a corp.

  ‘I kenned fine that nae time was to be lost, for if he once gaed doun the burn he wad be in Gled or ever I could say a word, and nane wad ever see him mair in life. So doon I got on my hunkers on the stane, and waited for the turnin’. Round he came, whirling in the foam, wi’ a lang line o’ blood across his brow where the stane had cut him. It was a terrible meenute. My heart fair stood still. I put out my airm, and as he passed I grippit him and wi’ an awfu’ pu’ got him out o’ the current into the side.

  ‘But now I found that a waur thing still was on me. My left airm was broken, and my richt sae numbed and weak wi’ my fall that, try as I micht, I couldna raise him ony further. I thocht I wad burst a bloodvessel i’ my face and my muscles fair cracked wi’ the strain, but I would make nothing o”t. There he stuck wi’ his heid and shouthers abune the water, pu’d close until the edge of a rock.

  ‘What was I to dae? If I once let him slip he wad be into the stream and lost forever. But I couldna hang on here a’ nicht, and as far as I could see there wad be naebody near till the mornin’, when Ebie Blackstock passed frae the Head o’ the Hope. I roared wi’ a’ my power; but I got nae answer, naething but the rummle o’ the water and the whistling o’ some whaups on the hill.

  ‘Then I turned very sick wi’ terror and pain and weakness and I kenna what. My broken airm seemed a great lump o’ burnin’ coal. I maun hae given it some extra wrench when I hauled him out, for it was sae sair now that I thocht I could scarcely thole it. Forbye, pain and a’, I could hae gone off to sleep wi’ fair weariness. I had heard o’ men sleepin’ on their feet, but I never felt it till then. Man, if I hadna warstled wi’ mysel, I wad hae dropped off as deid’s a peery.

  ‘Then there was the awfu’ strain o’ keepin’ Mr. Airthur up. He was a great big man, twelve stone I’ll warrant, and weighing a terrible lot mair wi’ his fishing togs and things. If I had had the use o’ my ither airm I micht hae taen off his jacket and creel and lichtened the burden, but I could do naething. I scarcely like to tell ye how I was tempted in that hour. Again and again I says to mysel, “Gidden Scott,” say I, “what do ye care for this man? He’s no a drap’s bluid to you, and forbye ye’ll never be able to save him. Ye micht as weel let him gang. Ye’ve dune a’ ye could. Ye’re a brave man, Gidden Scott, and ye’ve nae cause to be ashamed o’ givin’ up the fecht.” But I says to mysel again: “Gidden Scott, ye’re a coward. Wad ye let a man die, when there’s a breath in your body? Think shame o’ yoursel, man.” So I aye kept haudin’ on, although I was very near bye wi”t. Whenever I lookit at Mr. Airthur’s face, as white’s death and a’ blood, and his een sae stelled-like, I got a kind o’ groo and felt awfu’ pitiful for the bit laddie. Then I thocht on his faither, the auld Lord, wha was sae built up in him, and I couldna bear to think o’ his son droonin’ in that awfu’ hole. So I set mysel to the wark o’ keepin’ him up a’ nicht, though I had nae hope in the matter. It wasna what ye ca’ bravery that made me dae’t, for I had nae ither choice. It was just a kind o’ dourness that runs in my folk, and a kind o’ vexedness for sae young a callant in sic an ill place.

  ‘The nicht was hot and there was scarcely a sound o’ wind. I felt the sweat standin’ on my face like frost on tatties, and abune me the sky was a’ misty and nae mune visible. I thocht very likely that it micht come a thunder-shower and I kind o’ lookit forrit tae’t. For I was aye feared at lichtning, and if it came that nicht I was bound to get clean dazed and likely tummle in. I was a lonely man wi’ nae kin to speak o’, so it wouldna maitter muckle.

  ‘But now I come to tell ye about the queer side o’ that nicht’s wark, whilk I never telled to nane but yoursel, though a’ the folk about here ken the rest. I maun hae been geyan weak, for I got into a kind o’ doze, no sleepin’, ye understand, but awfu’ like it. And then a’ sort o’ daft things began to dance afore my een. Witches and bogles and brownies and things oot o’ the Bible, and leviathans and brazen bulls — a’ cam fleerin’ and flauntin’ on the tap o’ the water straucht afore me. I didna pay muckle heed to them, for I half kenned it was a’ nonsense, and syne they gaed awa’. Then an auld wife wi’ a mutch and a hale procession o’ auld wives passed, and just about the last I saw yin I thocht I kenned.

  ‘“Is that you, grannie?” says I.

  ‘“Aye, it’s me, Gidden,” says she; and as shure as I’m a leevin’ man, it was my auld grannie, whae had been deid thae sax year. She had on the same mutch as she aye wore, and the same auld black stickie in her hand, and, Dod, she had the same snuff-box I made for her out o’ a sheep’s horn when I first took to the herdin’. I thocht she was lookin’ rale weel.

  ‘“Losh, Grannie,” says I, “Where in the warld hae ye come frae? It’s no canny to see ye danderin’ about there.”

  ‘“Ye’ve been badly brocht up,” she says, “and ye ken nocht about it. Is’t no a decent and comely thing that I should get a breath o’ air yince in the while?”

  ‘“Deed,” said I, “I had forgotten. Ye were sae like yoursel I never had a mind ye were deid. And how d’ ye like the Guid Place?”

  ‘“Wheesht, Gidden,” says she, very solemn like, “I’m no there.” ‘Now at this I was fair flabbergasted. Grannie had aye been a guid contentit auld wumman, and to think that they hadna let her intil Heeven made me think ill o’ my ain chances.

  ‘“Help us, ye dinna mean to tell me ye’re in Hell?” I cries.

  ‘“No exactly,” says she, “But I’ll trouble ye, Gidden, to speak mair respectful about holy things. That’s a name ye uttered the noo whilk we dinna daur to mention.”

  ‘“I’m sorry, Grannie,” says I, “but ye maun allow it’s an astonishin’ thing for me to hear. We aye counted ye shure, and ye died wi’ the Buik in your hands.”

  ‘“Weel,” she says, “it was like this. When I gaed up till the gate o’ Heeven a man wi’ a lang white robe comes and says, ‘Wha may ye be?’ Says I, ‘I’m Elspeth Scott.’ He gangs awa’ and consults a wee and then he says, ‘I think, Elspeth my wumman, ye’ll hae to gang doon the brae a bit. Ye’re no quite guid eneuch for this place, but ye’ll get a very comfortable doonsittin’ whaur I tell ye.’ So off I gaed and cam’ to a place whaur the air was like the inside of the glass-houses at the Lodge. They took me in wi’oot a word and I’ve been rale comfortable. Ye see they keep the bad part o’ the Ill Place for the reg’lar bad folk, but they’ve a very nice half-way house where the likes o’ me stop.”

  ‘“And what
kind o’ company hae ye?”

  ‘“No very select,” says she. “There’s maist o’ the ministers o’ the countryside and a pickle fairmers, tho’ the maist o’ them are further ben. But there’s my son Jock, your ain faither, Gidden, and a heap o’ folk from the village, and oh, I’m nane sae bad.”

  ‘“Is there naething mair ye wad like then, Grannie?”

  ‘“Oh aye,” says she, “we’ve each yae thing which we canna get. It’s a’ the punishment we hae. Mine’s butter. I canna get fresh butter for my bread, for ye see it winna keep, it just melts. So I’ve to tak jeely to ilka slice, whilk is rale sair on the teeth. Ye’ll no hae ony wi’ ye?”

  ‘“No,” I says, “I’ve naething but some tobaccy. D’ ye want it? Ye were aye fond o”t.”

  ‘“Na, na,” says she. “I get plenty o’ tobaccy doon bye. The pipe’s never out o’ the folks’ mouth there. But I’m no speakin’ about yoursel, Gidden. Ye’re in a geyan ticht place.”

  ‘“I’m a’ that,” I said. “Can ye no help me?”

  ‘“I micht try.” And she raxes out her hand to grip mine. I put out mine to tak it, never thinkin’ that that wasna the richt side, and that if Grannie grippit it she wad pu’ the broken airm and haul me into the water. Something touched my fingers like a hot poker; I gave a great yell; and ere ever I kenned I was awake, a’ but off the rock, wi’ my left airm aching like hell-fire. Mr. Airthur I had let slunge ower the heid and my ain legs were in the water.

  ‘I gae an awfu whammle and edged my way back though it was near bye my strength. And now anither thing happened. For the cauld water roused Mr. Airthur frae his dwam. His een opened and he gave a wild look around him. “Where am I?” he cries, “Oh, God!” and he gaed off intil anither faint.

  ‘I can tell ye, sir, I never felt anything in this warld and I hope never to feel anything in anither sae bad as the next meenutes on that rock. I was fair sick wi’ pain and weariness and a kind o’ fever. The lip-lap o’ the water, curling round Mr. Airthur, and the great crush o’ the Black Linn itsel dang me fair silly. Then there was my airm, which was bad eneuch, and abune a’ I was gotten into sic a state that I was fleyed at ilka shadow just like a bairn. I felt fine I was gaun daft, and if the thing had lasted another score o’ meenutes I wad be in a madhouse this day. But soon I felt the sleepiness comin’ back, and I was off again dozin’ and dreamin’.

  ‘This time it was nae auld wumman but a muckle black-avised man that was standin’ in the water glowrin’ at me. I kenned him fine by the bandy-legs o’ him and the broken nose (whilk I did mysel), for Dan Kyle the poacher deid thae twae year. He was a man, as I remembered him weel, wi’ a great black beard and een that were stuck sae far in his heid that they looked like twae wull-cats keekin’ oot o’ a hole. He stands and just stares at me, and never speaks a word.

  ‘“What d’ye want?” I yells, for by this time I had lost a’ grip o’ mysel. “Speak, man, and dinna stand there like a dummy.”

  ‘“I want naething,” he says in a mournfu’ sing-song voice; “I’m just thinkin’.”

  ‘“Whaur d’ ye come frae?” I asked, “and are ye keepin’ weel?”

  ‘“Weel,” he says bitterly. “In this warld I was ill to my wife, and twa-three times I near killed a man, and I stole like a pyet, and I was never sober. How d’ ye think I should be weel in the next?”

  ‘I was sorry for the man. “D’ ye ken I’m vexed for ye, Dan,” says I; “I never likit ye when ye were here, but I’m wae to think ye’re sae ill off yonder.”

  ‘“I’m no alane,” he says. “There’s Mistress Courhope of the Big House, she’s waur. Ye mind she was awfu’ fond o’ gumflowers. Weel, she canna keep them Yonder, for they a’ melt wi’ the heat. She’s in an ill way about it, puir body.” Then he broke off. “Whae’s that ye’ve got there? Is’t Airthur Morrant?”

  ‘“Ay, it’s Airthur Morrant,” I said.

  ‘“His family’s weel kent doon bye,” says he. “We’ve maist o’ his forbears, and we’re expectin’ the auld Lord every day. May be we’ll sune get the lad himsel.”

  ‘“That’s a damned lee,” says I, for I was angry at the man’s presumption.

  ‘Dan lookit at me sorrowfu’-like. “We’ll be gettin’ you tae, if ye swear that gate,” says he, “and then ye’ll ken what it’s like.”

  ‘Of a sudden I fell into a great fear. “Dinna say that, Dan,” I cried; “I’m better than ye think. I’m a deacon, and ‘ll maybe sune be an elder, and I never swear except at my dowg.”

  ‘“Tak care, Gidden,” said the face afore me. “Where I am, a’ things are taken into account.”

  ‘“Then they’ll hae a gey big account for you,” says I. “What-like do they treat you, may be?”

  ‘The man groaned.

  ‘“I’ll tell ye what they dae to ye doon there,” he said. “They put ye intil a place a’ paved wi’ stanes and wi’ four square walls around. And there’s naething in’t, nae grass, nae shadow. And abune you there’s a sky like brass. And sune ye get terrible hot and thirsty, and your tongue sticks to your mouth, and your eyes get blind wi’ lookin’ on the white stane. Then ye gang clean fey, and dad your heid on the ground and the walls to try and kill yoursel. But though ye dae’t till a’ eternity ye couldna feel pain. A’ that ye feel is just the awfu’ devourin’ thirst, and the heat and the weariness. And if ye lie doon the ground burns ye and ye’re fain to get up. And ye canna lean on the walls for the heat, and bye and bye when ye’re fair perished wi’ the thing, they tak ye out to try some ither ploy.”

  ‘“Nae mair,” I cried, “nae mair, Dan!”

  ‘But he went on malicious-like, —

  ‘“Na, na, Gidden, I’m no dune yet. Syne they tak you to a fine room but awfu’ warm. And there’s a big fire in the grate and thick woollen rugs on the floor. And in the corner there’s a braw feather bed. And they lay ye down on’t, and then they pile on the tap o’ ye mattresses and blankets and sacks and great rolls o’ woollen stuff miles wide. And then ye see what they’re after, tryin’ to suffocate ye as they dae to folk that a mad dowg has bitten. And ye try to kick them off, but they’re ower heavy, and ye canna move your feet nor your airms nor gee your heid. Then ye gang clean gyte and skirl to yoursel, but your voice is choked and naebody is near. And the warst o”t is that ye canna die and get it ower. It’s like death a hundred times and yet ye’re aye leevin’. Bye and bye when they think ye’ve got eneuch they tak you out and put ye somewhere else.”

  ‘“Oh,” I cries, “stop, man, or you’ll ding me silly.”

  ‘But he says never a word, just glowrin’ at me.

  ‘“Aye, Gidden, and waur than that. For they put ye in a great loch wi’ big waves just like the sea at the Pier o’ Leith. And there’s nae chance o’ soomin’, for as sune as ye put out your airms a billow gulfs ye down. Then ye swallow water and your heid dozes round and ye’re chokin’. But ye canna die, ye must just thole. And down ye gang, down, down, in the cruel deep, till your heid’s like to burst and your een are fu’ o’ bluid. And there’s a’ kind o’ fearfu’ monsters about, muckle slimy things wi’ blind een and white scales, that claw at ye wi’ claws just like the paws o’ a drooned dog. And ye canna get away though ye fecht and fleech, and bye and bye ye’re fair mad wi’ horror and choking and the feel o’ thae awfu’ things. Then—”

  ‘But now I think something snapped in my heid, and I went daft in doonricht earnest. The man before me danced about like a lantern’s shine on a windy nicht and then disappeared. And I woke yelling like a pig at a killing, fair wud wi’ terror, and my skellochs made the rocks ring. I found mysel in the pool a’ but yae airm - the broken yin — which had hankit in a crack o’ rock. Nae wonder I had been dreaming o’ deep waters among the torments o’ the Ill Place, when I was in them mysel. The pain in my airm was sae fearsome and my heid was gaun round sae wi’ horror that I just skirled on and on, shrieking and groaning wi’oot a thocht what I was daein’. I was as near death as ever I will be, and as for Mr. Airt
hur he was on the very nick o”t, for by this time he was a’ in the water, though I still kept a grip o’ him.

  ‘When I think ower it often I wonder how it was possible that I could be here the day. But the Lord’s very gracious, and he works in a queer way. For it so happened that Ebie Blackstock, whae had left Gledsmuir an hour afore me and whom I thocht by this time to be snorin’ in his bed at the Head o’ the Hope, had gone intil the herd’s house at the Waterfit, and had got sae muckle drink there that he was sweered to start for hame till aboot half-past twal i’ the night. Weel, he was comin’ up the burnside, gey happy and contentit, for he had nae wife at hame to speir about his ongaeings, when, as he’s telled me himsel, he heard sic an uproar doon by the Black Linn that made him turn pale and think that the Deil, whom he had long served, had gotten him at last. But he was a brave man, was Ebie, and he thinks to himsel that some fellow-creature micht be perishin’. So he gangs forrit wi’ a’ his pith, trying to think on the Lord’s Prayer and last Sabbath’s sermon. And, lookin’ ower the edge, he saw naething for a while, naething but the black water wi’ the awfu’ yells coming out o”t. Then he made out something like a heid near the side. So he rins doon by the road, no ower the rocks as I had come, but round by the burnside road, and soon he gets to the pool, where the crying was getting aye fainter and fainter. And then he saw me. And he grips me by the collar, for he was a sensible man, was Ebie, and hauls me oot. If he hadna been geyan strong he couldna hae dune it, for I was a deid wecht, forbye having a heavy man hanging on to me. When he got me up, what was his astonishment to find anither man at the end o’ my airm, a man like a corp a’ bloody about the heid. So he got us baith out, and we twae baith senseless; and he laid us in a safe bit back frae the water, and syne gaed off for help. So bye and bye we were baith got home, me to my house and Mr. Airthur up to the Lodge.’