by John Buchan
I
One of these spring days in which winter had completely got the predominance of summer was merging into darkness and the light of day was gradually leaving the kitchen of the Crook Inn to make way for the more cheerful light of the fire. The Crook Inn, as all travellers between Edinburgh and Dumfries know, is situated on the top of the high bank of the Tweed, a few miles below its junction with the Talla.
It was the haunt of all the drovers who came from the south to the Scottish fairs, and every other day the mail coach stopped to change horses. Now and then a shepherd or a farmer dropped in or a belated traveller in that stormy region. On this particular night several shepherds from the hills, a sprinkling of drovers and two men, who by their dress appeared to be travelling chapmen, thronged around the ample fireplace in the inn kitchen. The great black oak rafters were plentifully adorned with smoked hams, shoulders of beef and white hares, as beseemed the season of the year. One of the shepherds got up and opened the door. A great blast blew in with a few raindrops. ‘What kind o’ nicht is it, shepherd?’ said one of the packmen. ‘Nae nicht for me to get back to the Hopehead in,’ was the surly answer. The great black clouds were coming thick over the sky, while on the horizon a grey vapour was slowly arising. The hills looked near and black. The roar of the Tweed, swollen high by recent rains, came up above the noise of the wind. The shepherd slammed the door, let down the bar which closed it, and returned once more to his seat at the fire.
‘There’s nae lack o’ wet weather in the air,’ said he. ‘There’ll be nae crossing Tweed the nicht, and less the morn. It’s a guid thing Biggar fair is past, and I have my stock sell’t.’
‘It will be a bad look out for us,’ said one of the drovers, ‘we’ll never see Dumfries this week.’
‘It’s a providence for me,’ said the landlord of the inn, Gideon Scott by name, a big burly man of about forty, with a shrewd, quiet face, ‘it’s a clear godsend that I havena’ to go to Edinburgh this month. Ye ken I have to go in every month in the way of business. But who should be going in this week but Jamie Hislop my wife’s brother, so he got my commission, and, being a man of his word, I can lippen to him. It’s an awful time this to travel in. Just in this week last year the coach fell over the Blyth Bridge and killed two passengers. And the driver of the mail told me that there is a tale of terrible robberies in the Lothians, and even hinted that the Dumfries coach hersel wasna over safe. Lord preserve Jamie Hislop and my commission.’
By this time the candles had been brought in and set down on the high oak dressser. At this period the shepherd of Kingledores rose to go, and a tall dark man, who stood by the fireplace and was evidently a shepherd, rose to follow him. The latter man was by far the most striking-looking in the company. He was dressed in rough homespuns, marked here and there with spots of tar and tufts of wool from his recent operations with sheep at Biggar fair. His face was tanned brown with the weather but there was a certain nobility, not so often found among shepherds, in his clear cut features and proud bearing. He must have been considerably over six feet high, and his brawny legs, broad shoulders, and muscular arms showed that he possessed great bodily strength. As he rose to go he picked up his stout horn-handled stick and whistled on his dog which was lying below the table.
‘Yeddie, Yeddie,’ cried the host in astonishment, ‘guidsakes, man, you’re no going to try to get to Talla the nicht. No mortal man could get halfway.’
‘Psa, what’s a blast o’ rain to me, Gidden, it’s no’ the first time I been out in it.’
‘Sit down, ye loon,’ said the host angrily, ‘I’ll let no man go away frae my hoose the nicht. It wisna’ half sic an ill nicht last Martinmas when Tam Laidlaw, the herd of Stanhope, was drowned trying to cross the ford down there. Ye ken the bridge was washed away wi’ the last flood and ye’ll never ford the river when it is like this.’
‘It maun be done,’ said Yeddie, as without another word he wrapped his plaid around his shoulders and went out into the night.
An obstinate mule if ever there was one,’ said the landlord. ‘Aweel, he’ll wish he had taen my advice when he finds himself in the Black Linn.’ Supper, which two centuries ago was taken at a much earlier hour than in our times, was now set on the table. The company took their seats before viands which were admirably adapted to satisfy hungry men — a salmon from the Tweed, a piece of black-faced mutton from the hills, and a large bowl of porridge, which stood at one end of the table and from which platefuls were ladled out to each man. When the supper was finished, a large china bowl, a number of glasses and a silver ladle were brought in and the landlord proceeded to brew a bowl of toddy. It was served round to the guests and, as their glasses were replenished pretty frequently, their spirits became somewhat exuberant. One of the packmen entered upon a lengthy tale, stopping every now and then to laugh loudly at some joke, which the company invariably failed to appreciate. As a diversion a drover sang a bacchanalian song very popular in that part of the country, and the rest took up the chorus, which emphatically declared that they had hitherto trusted to Providence and would still continue to do it. Then a draught board was produced and one of the shepherds and the sober packman played a game. The other drovers produced a dirty pack of cards and began to play for money. The rest of the shepherds, who cared for none of these things, sat down round the fire with the host and discussed the prices of sheep and the prospects of the weather. Gideon had been somewhat gloomy all the evening. He had failed to enter heartily into the mirth at the supper table, and had talked to his guests with the air of a man performing a disagreeable duty. Now he broke in upon the conversation with an abrupt question:
‘What in the world made Yeddie tak’ the road for Talla the nicht?’
‘I’m sure I dinna ken, Gidden,’ said one of the shepherds who hailed from Moffat Water, ‘he’s a queer body, is Yeddie, but when once he’s set his heart on onything, I’d like to see the man that wad stop him.’
‘There’s ower mony o’ his kind in the country the noo, and we could weel be rid o’ half o’ them. Restless, peppery chiels, wha canna bide to hear a word against them. I saw a better man hang’t in the Grassmarket afore I left Edinburgh.’
‘I am no caring what he is, but I wish he hadna’ tried the Tweed the nicht.’
There was silence for a while, broken only by the crackling of the wood in the fire and the howling of the storm outside. Then came a gust of wind stronger than the rest and with a crash the door was blown open. Up jumped Gideon to shut the door, while the candles were almost blown out by the violence of the blast.
‘Guidsakes, come and look at the water!’ roared the astonished landlord.
One or two shepherds came, the rest being either too drunk or too busy to attend. They looked out from the door porch and a wonderful sight met their eyes. The Tweed had burst the barriers of its banks and was bearing down the valley a wilderness of swirling yellow water. The roar was like that of the North Sea in the winter storms. Trunks of trees and broken fragments of wooden bridges floated on the surface. Far down the glen a line of white foam marked where the river plunged over the Black Linn. The air was almost free from rain, but the murky blackness in the southern sky told of a terrible rainfall further up the stream. Broad Law on the other side of the river was almost wholly enveloped in mist, the which stood out in peculiar contrast to the blackness of the moorlands beneath. They looked on for a few minutes in silence, then Gideon went into the kitchen again.
He took down his bonnet from a peg, wrapped a plaid round his shoulders and took a large ash stick which stood in the corner. He then put a flask of brandy in his pocket and rejoined his comrades at the door.
‘I’m going doon to the ford to see if I can see onything o’ Yeddie. Will ony o’ ye come with me?’
Two shepherds, Wat Fletcher from Drumelzier and Robert Senton of Fruid, went out with him. Down the rough hillside they went for a few paces and then turned down the valley for about half a mile, gradually approaching nearer the riv
er till they came to where a small cart track led down to the water’s edge. Here was the ford, though on this night, ford there was none. A small rowan tree marked where the road began on the other side. Between them and this tree lay many yards of brown, unpassable water.
‘If Yeddie tried the ford, he was drowned,’ said Gideon in a mournful tone. For a considerable time they waited there scanning the stream and shouting the name of the lost shepherd. Then they began sadly to go away when a dog’s barking came on their ear. They listened and waited. Again it was heard further down the river.
‘I could swear onywhere that that was Maisie’s bark,’ said Fletcher.
‘If that’s Yeddie’s dog, Yeddie’s no’ far off,’ said Rob Senton. Quickly, with Gideon in front, they rushed down the bank of the Tweed, guided by the barking of the dog. They were now close upon that terrible fall, known all over the district as the Black Linn. The waters of the Tweed rush into a narrow channel, with high precipitous rocks on both sides. Then the river dashes over a linn some thirty feet high, into a deep black pool, from which the fall gets its name. The pool is thickly fringed with hazel and rowan trees, many bending far over the water. On the banks they found a small collie, black and tan in colour, rushing up and down the grass, barking wildly. When it saw the three men, it immediately made for them and, crouching at their feet, whined and moaned in the most piteous manner. Then it sprang up again and rushed along the bank, every now and then looking back to see that it was followed. At last it reached a gap in the trees above where the river made a turn. An old oak, knotted and gnarled with very age ran out into the water, bending its boughs close to the stream. Here the collie stopped and with one long-drawn howl attempted to crawl along a bough of the oak. Gideon caught it by the tail and swung it back, for he had caught a glimpse of something at the end of the branch which moved him to rapid action. The current had washed down a large wooden plank, probably from some ruined bridge, against an arm of the oak. Wedged in between the tree and the plank, with his legs in the water, was the unconscious form of Yeddie. Knowing that there was not a moment to lose, since at any moment the stream might wash away the plank, Gideon flung off his plaid, and prepared to crawl along the bough. Slowly and painfully he made his way, with the wood creaking at every movement. Sometimes he lost his footing and clutched the branch to save himself. Sometimes a larger wave than usual washed over his legs. At last he was within reach, and was able to grip the shepherd’s coat. But now a new difficulty faced him. He could not re-cross the branch with such a burden in his arms. There was no alternative but to leap into the flood and carry Yeddie with him. The tide was running hard, but he saw that it would carry him close to the bank which a strong man might catch. With a cry to the men to run for the turning he clutched Yeddie more tightly and slipped off the branch. The water surged over his head and he felt as if he would never rise again. But up he came and struck out boldly. The weight of his burden was a sad hindrance to him; without it he felt that he might have saved himself. Once more he sunk and once more he rose. The bank loomed black before, and he saw that now was his chance or never. With one great effort he clutched a tree root which projected, and felt himself being washed in towards the side: then two pairs of strong hands gripped him and he and his burden were lifted into safety.
Gideon was soon restored to himself by a mouthful of brandy, and then he turned to the man he had rescued. To bring him back to consciousness was a much more difficult task. He had abandoned the idea of crossing at the ford and attempted the river below the linn, where the breadth is not so great but that a strong man might leap over it. The attempt had failed and he had been carried down by the current. His head had been badly cut by a sharp rock and after being borne along for about a hundred yards he had been caught by the tree. Here, weak with fatigue and the loss of blood, he had been exposed for more than three hours with the water dashing over him.
At first, the treatment of Gideon and his men had no effect. But, after a time, through vigorous rubbing and repeated doses of brandy, their patient showed signs of consciousness. Then he opened his eyes and recovered so far as to be able to speak and thank his preservers. Weak and faint he was conveyed to the inn by the strong arms of the three men and there put to bed. But Yeddie was blessed with an iron constitution, and, though the night’s adventures might have killed most men, they had little or no effect on him. In a week his cut was almost healed and he was able to proceed to his house at Talla.
II
The springtime had passed into the summer and the time of the long, hot days had come, when Gideon Scott made preparations for his journey to Edinburgh. This was always a great event to the household at the moorland inn. The night before the appointed day few of the inmates got any sleep, for the coach passed at three o’clock in the morning. On this occasion Gideon’s journey was more important than usual, for he had to receive a sum of money which was owing him from a cattle dealer in Edinburgh, and had also resolved to buy an additional horse, on which he might make his journey home. Accordingly, early on Tuesday morning, when the fleecy mist had not yet lifted from the hilltops, and the sun was beginning to make himself seen over the hills of Kingledores, Gideon stood on the doorstep of the Crook Inn, accoutred for his journey. He had not waited long, when the lumbering, crazy old coach came round the turn of the hill, and drew up at the inn door. Gideon hoisted himself into it along with what little luggage he had, and soon was carried out of sight of his home. With what transpired till he reached Edinburgh we have little to do. Suffice it to say that he had an uneventful journey, unattended by any of the usual accidents which befell the unhappy coach; that he transacted his business in Edinburgh, bought his horse, and set out on his return journey. His purchase, which was a fine brown mare, had been warranted by Jock Scott, his cousin from whom he had bought it, to be able to outrun any animal in the Lothians. Gideon took his road through the village of Liberton and thence out into the pleasant valley of the Esk. Ere nightfall he arrived at Leadburn, where he put up for the night. Next morning he remembered an old friend of his who lived at Bordlands, whom he resolved to visit. Accordingly, he pushed on, and about midday arrived at Bordlands. His friend was of a sociable character, and prevailed upon him to stay longer than his better judgment required. Thus it came about that it was nearly six o’clock when he left Bordlands with the intention of reaching Broughton that night.
All went well until he passed through the little village of Kirkurd, and reached the wild moorland, which extends without a human dwelling to the village of Broughton, twelve miles away. Gideon rode on for a considerable distance until he became aware of three men riding at right angles to the highway. Whether it was the influence of the farmer of Bordlands’ ale or not, I do not know, but Gideon instantly conceived the idea that these men intended to block the road. They might be highwaymen or they might not but he had heard of daring attacks lately and he had a large sum of money in his pocket, so he clapped spurs to his horse and rode at full speed along the highway. Now the three horsemen did a still more suspicious thing; they directed their horses for a point in the road where it made a sharp turn. Gideon felt that if he did not get to this place first he was a lost man, for he dare not trust himself to the bogs on the side of the road. He knew that his mare could hold her own on the highway, so he strained every nerve to get the lead. She responded gallantly to his calls, everything seemed to dance before Gideon’s eyes; he saw only the white spot which marked where the bend was, and the black forms of his pursuers. Now to his joy he saw that he was gaining ground; the three horsemen saw this also and endeavoured with might and main to recover it. At last the turn was reached and with one great bound the mare swept round it with the three men about twelve yards behind her. Then began a race grim and long. The horses of the highwaymen though inferior in quality to Gideon’s mare were very much fresher. The road from this point leads in an almost straight line down the valley of a small stream to the village of Broughton. It was now about nine o’clock and the d
usk was creeping up the sky. Gideon felt faint and giddy; the landscape swam before his eyes, he dared not look behind him but he knew his pursuers were near. He wondered that no shot had been fired, but he concluded that they had no firearms. Now he could see the lights of Broughton twinkling through the gathering gloom six miles ahead. New courage grew up within him. He stood up in his stirrups and coaxed and patted his mare. She made one gallant effort more and gained other ten yards. Then she fell back again to her old pace. But now the highwaymen made a fresh effort also and Gideon felt with a sickening sense of terror that they were gaining on him. On and on they swept, gaining at every step. Now he could feel their horses’ breath on the back of his neck. One more gallant effort the mare made, and increased the distance between them by a few yards. But it was her last; her breath came up in great pants; the gallop was changed to a canter, the canter to a trot, and the trot to a walk. Then, with a rush, the three horsemen dashed past the terror-stricken Gideon and caught his mare’s bridle. The unhappy man gave himself up for lost, and thought woefully of the fate of his money, when an extraordinary thing happened. As soon as the leader cast his eyes on Gideon’s face, ‘Stand back,’ he roared in a voice of thunder, ‘and let him past.’ The highwaymen wheeled their horses round and galloped away, leaving the astonished Gideon to proceed on his way in safety. But by the dim light that remained, he had recognised in the leader of the three the saturnine features of Yeddie.
III
Gideon, one afternoon in the month of October, might be seen mounting his mare in the courtyard of the Cross Keys Inn at Peebles. He had come down from the hills for the autumn fair; for Gideon was a versatile man in his way, and in addition to his occupation of innkeeper, he was a small sheep farmer. The day was one of those fine clear autumn days, with just a touch of frost in the air. As he rode along through the pleasant woods of Neidpath, his heart was glad within him, and he felt at peace with all men, that is with the exception of Robin the drover who had cheated him out of thirty pounds, at the last fair, at Biggar. Gideon was one of these men who remember an injury for about two months, and then forget it entirely. At first he had thought he would have liked to kill Robin, now he simply wished to make him pay back. On this special afternoon the air was the air of spring, and had it not been for the withered leaves one might have thought it March. Gideon crossed the bridge over the Lyne Water, then but newly erected, and remembered how he had to swim his horse over the stream the last time he came this road. Then he rode along through the rich meadows which make the valley of the Tweed at this point like a nobleman’s estate. One would hardly have thought it the same river here gliding slowly through among high reeds and between banks as smooth as a lawn, as that which half a dozen miles further up tumbles and rushes among desolate brown moors, and rocky hills. About five o’clock in the afternoon he bethought himself that he was thirsty, and being near the little village of Stobo, he resolved to pay a visit to the inn and taste its ale. He alighted from his horse at the inn door and marched in and called loudly for the master, Sandilands. The master appeared, a tall stout man, renowned in his younger days for his feats at hammer throwing.
