Complete Fictional Works of John Buchan (Illustrated)

by John Buchan

  I did not wait long. Suddenly down the defile came a single figure. It was Linford, but even to my distraught sight a different Linford from him I had known. As I have said he was a big fellow, a little ungainly, a little afraid of his size. But now he was a noble figure of a man, and as he strode along there was a strange mastery and dignity in him. But why was he alone? I blinked my eyes, for I saw that he was not alone. He carried in his arms something slim and white and very quiet. I crouched behind a boulder as he came near, but he had no eyes for anything but his burden. His head was bent over it, and his face was wild and drawn with grief. Then I saw that a fair head lay limply in the crook of his arm, and that the face was very pale...

  The doctors called it heart failure. Miss Virginia, said one of them in a moment of poetry, had for years had a frail chariot for her body and the horses of her spirit had driven too fiercely. She must have had heart trouble, though no one had diagnosed it. The hill walk from Cauldshaw had been too much for her. The same man spoke wisely about the evils of our modern life. ‘Most people to-day,’ he said, ‘have temperaments that prey on their bodies. They must live at white heat and the shell cracks Years afterwards, when time had taken the edge off his grief, Linford told me something of what happened. ‘She met me, looking very well and jolly, and we walked to the place you call the Bower. You may laugh at me, but I tell you I had a presentiment that something was going to happen, but I couldn’t be sure whether it was good or bad... She looked all round the Glen and sighed happily, as if she had found what she liked very much. Then suddenly she gave a little cry and went very white. I caught her, and saw that she was all in a shiver. She was staring at the burn, and her eyes were round and frightened like a deer’s. Then she smiled again, and turned to me with a look — Oh, my God, I can never forget it! It was so kind and happy and... She must have cared for me all the time, and like a blind fool I didn’t know it. She put her arms round my neck and said, “My ain true love” — I suppose she was quoting from a Scotch song. And just as I was bursting with joy I felt her cheek grow cold...’

  Now it is a curious thing, but in the Scotichronicon of Hume of Calzeat - it is in manuscript, and I do not think any one living has read it besides myself — there is a version of the story of Maid Marjory. And according to that version, when the lady confronted her father in the Green Glen, she put her arm around the Douglas’s neck, and said, ‘My ain true love.’

  The Riding of Ninemileburn

  Blackwood’s Magazine, 1912

  SIM BENT OVER the meal ark and plumbed its contents with his fist. Two feet and more remained: provender — with care — for a month, till he harvested the waterside corn and ground it at Ashkirk mill. He straightened his back, better pleased; and, as he moved, the fine dust flew into his throat and set him coughing. He choked back the sound till his face crimsoned.

  But the mischief was done. A woman’s voice, thin and weary, came from the ben-end.

  The long man tiptoed awkwardly to her side. ‘Canny, lass,’ he crooned. ‘It’s me back frae the hill. There’s a mune and a clear sky, and I’ll hae the lave under thack and rape the morn. Syne I’m for Ninemileburn, and the coo ‘ill be i’ the byre by Setterday. Things micht be waur, and we’ll warstle through yet. There was mair tint at Flodden.’ The last rays of October daylight that filtered through the straw lattice showed a woman’s head on the pillow. The face was white and drawn, and the great black eyes — she had been an Oliver out of Megget - were fixed in the long stare of pain. Her voice had the high lilt and the deep undertones of the Forest.

  ‘The bairn ‘ill be gone ere ye ken, Sim,’ she said wearily. ‘He canna live without milk, and I’ve nane to gie him. Get the coo back or lose the son I bore ye. If I were my ordinar’ I wad hae’t in the byre, though I had to kindle Ninemileburn ower Wat’s heid.’

  She turned miserably on her pillow and the babe beside her set up a feeble crying. Sim busied himself with stirring up the peat fire. He knew too well that he would never see the milk-cow till he took with him the price of his debt or gave a bond on harvested crops. He had had a bad lambing, and the wet summer had soured his shallow lands. The cess to Branksome was due, and he had had no means to pay it. His father’s cousin of the Ninemileburn was a brawling fellow, who never lacked beast in byre or corn in bin, and to him he had gone for the loan. But Wat was a hard man, and demanded surety; so the one cow had travelled the six moorland miles and would not return till the bond was cancelled. As well might he try to get water from stone as move Wat by any tale of a sick wife and dying child.

  The peat smoke got into his throat and brought on a fresh fit of coughing. The wet year had played havoc with his chest, and his lean shoulders shook with the paroxysms. An anxious look at the bed told him that Marion was drowsing, so he slipped to the door.

  Outside, as he had said, the sky was clear. From the plashy hillside came the rumour of swollen burns. Then he was aware of a man’s voice shouting.

  ‘Sim,’ it cried, ‘Sim o’ the Cleuch... Sim.’ A sturdy figure came down through the scrog of hazel and revealed itself as his neighbour of the Dodhead. Jamie Telfer lived five miles off in Ettrick, but his was the next house to the Cleuch shieling.

  Telfer was running, and his round red face shone with sweat. ‘Dod, man, Sim, ye’re hard o’ hearing. I was routin’ like to wake the deid, and ye never turned your neck. It’s the fray I bring ye. Mount and ride to the Carewoodrig. The word’s frae Branksome. I’ve but Ranklehope to raise, and then me and William’s Tam will be on the road to join ye.’

  ‘Whatna fray?’ Sim asked blankly.

  ‘Ninemileburn. Bewcastle’s marching. They riped the place at cockcrow, and took twenty-six kye, five horse, and a walth o’ plenishing. They were seen fordin’ Teviot at ten afore noon, but they’re gaun round by Ewes Water, for they durstna try the Hermitage Slack. Forbye they move slow, for the bestial’s heavy wark to drive. They shut up Wat in the auld peel, and he didna win free till bye midday. Syne he was off to Branksome, and the word frae Branksome is to raise a Ettrick, Teviotdale, Ale Water, and the Muirs o Esk. We look to win up wi’ the lads long ere they cross Liddel, and that at the speed they gang will be gey an’ near sunrise. It’s a braw mune for the job.’

  Jamie Telfer lay on his face by the burn and lapped up water like a dog. Then without another word he trotted off across the hillside beyond which lay the Ranklehope.

  Sim had a fit of coughing and looked stupidly at the sky. Here was the last straw. He was dog-tired, for he had had little sleep the past week. There was no one to leave with Marion, and Marion was too weak to tend herself. The word was from Branksome, and at another time Branksome was to be obeyed. But now the thing was past reason. What use was there for a miserable careworn man to ride among the swank well-fed lads in the Bewcastle chase?

  And then he remembered his cow. She would be hirpling with the rest of the Ninemileburn beasts on the road to the Border. The case was more desperate than he had thought. She was gone for ever unless he helped Wat to win her back. And if she went, where was the milk for the child?

  He stared hopelessly up at a darkening sky. Then he went to the lean-to where his horse was stalled. The beast was fresh, for it had not been out for two days — a rough Forest shelty with shaggy heels and a mane like a thicket. Sim set his old saddle on it, and went back to the house.

  His wife was still asleep, breathing painfully. He put water on the fire to boil, and fetched a handful of meal from the ark. With this he made a dish of gruel, and set it by the bedside. He drew a pitcher of water from the well, for she might be thirsty. Then he banked up the fire and steeked the window. When she woke she would find food and drink, and he would be back before the next darkening. He dared not look at the child.

  The shelty shied at a line of firelight from the window, as Sim flung himself wearily on its back. He had got his long ash spear from its place among the rafters, and donned his leather jacket with the iron studs on breast and shoulder. One of the seams gaped
. His wife had been mending it when her pains took her.

  He had ridden by Commonside and was high on the Caerlanrig before he saw signs of men. The moon swam in a dim dark sky, and the hills were as yellow as corn. The round top of the Wisp made a clear mark to ride by. Sim was a nervous man, and at another time would never have dared to ride alone by the ruined shieling of Chasehope, where folk said a witch had dwelt long ago and the Devil still came in the small hours. But now he was too full of his cares to have room for dread. With his head on his breast he let the shelty take its own road through the mosses.

  But on the Caerlanrig he came on a troop of horse. They were a lusty crowd, well-mounted and armed, with iron basnets and corselets that jingled as they rode. Harden’s men, he guessed, with young Harden at the head of them. They cried him greeting as he fell in at the tail. ‘It’s Long Sim o’ the Cleuch,’ one said; ‘he’s sib to Wat or he wadna be here. Sim likes his ain fireside better than the’Bateable Land.’

  The companionship of others cheered him. There had been a time, before he brought Marion from Megget, when he was a well-kenned figure on the Borders, a good man at weaponshows and a fierce fighter when his blood was up. Those days were long gone; but the gusto of them returned. No man had ever lightlied him without paying scot. He held up his head and forgot his cares and his gaping jacket. In a little they had topped the hill, and were looking down on the young waters of Ewes.

  The company grew, as men dropped in from left and right. Sim recognised the wild hair of Charlie of Geddinscleuch, and the square shoulders of Adam of Frodslaw. They passed Mosspaul, a twinkle far down in the glen, and presently came to the long green slope which is called the Carewoodrig, and which makes a pass from Ewes to Hermitage. To Sim it seemed that an army had encamped on it. Fires had been lit in a howe, and wearied men slept by them. These were the runners, who all day had been warning the dales. By one fire stood the great figure of Wat o’ the Ninemileburn, blaspheming to the skies and counting his losses. He had girded on a long sword, and for better precaution had slung an axe on his back. At the sight of young Harden he held his peace. The foray was Branksome’s and a Scott must lead.

  Dimly and stupidly, for he was very weary, Sim heard word of the enemy. The beasts had travelled slow, and would not cross Liddel till sunrise. Now they were high up on Tarras water, making for Liddel at a ford below the Castletown. There had been no time to warn the Elliots, but the odds were that Lariston and Mangerton would be out by morning.

  ‘Never heed the Elliots,’ cried young Harden. ‘We can redd our ain frays, lads. Haste and ride, and we’ll hae Geordie Musgrave long ere he wins to the Ritterford. Borrowstonemoss is the bit for us.’ And with the light Scott laugh he was in the saddle.

  They were now in a land of low marshy hills, which made ill-going. A companion gave Sim the news. Bewcastle had five-score men and the Scots fourscore and three. ‘It’s waur to haud than to win,’ said the man. ‘Ae man can tak’ ten beasts when three ‘ill no keep them. There’ll be bluidy war on Tarras side ere the nicht’s dune.’

  Sim was feeling his weariness too sore for speech. He remembered that he had tasted no food for fifteen hours. He found his meal-poke and filled his mouth, but the stuff choked him. It only made him cough fiercely, so that Wat o’ the Ninemileburn, riding before him, cursed him for a broken-winded fool. Also he was remembering about Marion, lying sick in the darkness twenty miles over the hills.

  The moon was clouded, for an east wind was springing up. It was ill riding on the braeface, and Sim and his shelty floundered among the screes. He was wondering how long it would all last. Soon he must fall down and be the scorn of the Border men. The thought put Marion out of his head again. He set his mind on tending his horse and keeping up with his fellows.

  Suddenly a whistle from Harden halted the company. A man came running back from the crown of the rig. A whisper went about that Bewcastle was on the far side, in the little glen called the Brunt Burn. The men held their breath, and in the stillness they heard far off the sound of hooves on stones and the heavy breathing of cattle.

  It was a noble spot for an ambuscade. The Borderers scattered over the hillside, some riding south to hold the convoy as it came down the glen. Sim’s weariness lightened. His blood ran quicker; he remembered that the cow, his child’s one hope, was there before him. He found himself next his cousin Wat, who chewed curses in his great beard. When they topped the rig they saw a quarter of a mile below them the men they sought. The cattle were driven in the centre, with horsemen in front and rear and flankers on the braeside.

  ‘Hae at them, lads,’ cried Wat o’ the Ninemileburn, as he dug spurs into his grey horse. From farther down the glen he was answered with a great shout of ‘Branksome’.

  Somehow or other Sim and his shelty got down the steep braeface. The next he knew was that the raiders had turned to meet him — to meet him alone, it seemed; the moon had come out again, and their faces showed white in it. The cattle, as the driving ceased, sank down wearily in the moss. A man with an iron ged turned, cursing, to receive Wat’s sword on his shoulder-bone. A light began to blaze from down the burn — Sim saw the glitter of it out of the corner of an eye — but the men in front were dark figures with white faces.

  The Bewcastle lads were stout fellows, well used to hold as well as take. They closed up in line around the beasts, and the moon lit the tops of their spears. Sim brandished his ash-shaft, which had weighed heavily these last hours, and to his surprise found it light. He found his voice, too, and fell a-roaring like Wat.

  Before he knew he was among the cattle. Wat had broken the ring, and men were hacking and slipping among the slab sides of the wearied beasts. The shelty came down over the rump of a red bullock, and Sim was sprawling on his face in the trampled grass. He struggled to rise, but some one had him by the throat.

  Anger fired his slow brain. He reached out his long arms and grappled a leather jerkin. His nails found a seam and rent it, for he had mighty fingers. Then he was gripping warm flesh, tearing it like a wild beast, and his assailant with a cry slackened his hold.

  ‘Whatna wull-cat...’ he began, but he got no further. The hoof of Wat’s horse came down on his head and brained him. A spatter of blood fell on Sim’s face.

  The man was half wild. His shelty had broken back for the hill, but his spear lay a yard off. He seized it and got to his feet, to find that Wat had driven the English over the burn. The cattle were losing their weariness in panic, and tossing wild manes among the Scots. It was like a fight in a winter’s byre. The glare on the right grew fiercer, and young Harden’s voice rose, clear as a bell, above the tumult. He was swearing by the cross of his sword.

  On foot, in the old Border way, Sim followed in Wat’s wake, into the bog and beyond the burn. He laired to his knees, but he scarcely heeded it. There was a big man before him, a foolish, red-haired fellow, who was making great play with a cudgel. He had shivered two spears and was singing low to himself. Farther off Wat had his axe in hand and was driving the enemy to the brae. There were dead men in the moss. Sim stumbled over a soft body, and a hand caught feebly at his heel. ‘To me, lads,’ cried Wat. ‘Anither birse and we hae them broken.’

  But something happened. Harden was pushing the van of the raiders up the stream, and a press of them surged in from the right. Wat found himself assailed on his flank, and gave ground. The big man with the cudgel laughed loud and ran down the hill, and the Scots fell back on Sim. Men tripped over him, and as he rose he found the giant above him with his stick in the air.

  The blow fell, glancing from the ash-shaft to Sim’s side. Something cracked and his left arm hung limp. But the furies of hell had hold of him now. He rolled over, gripped his spear short, and with a swift turn struck upwards. The big man gave a sob and toppled down into a pool of the burn.

  Sim struggled to his feet, and saw that the raiders were beginning to hough the cattle. One man was driving a red spear into a helpless beast. It might have been the Cleuch cow. The
sight maddened him, and like a destroying angel he was among them. One man he caught full in the throat, and had to set a foot on his breast before he could tug the spear out. Then the head shivered on a steel corselet, and Sim played quarterstaff with the shaft. The violence of his onslaught turned the tide. Those whom Harden drove up were caught in a vice, and squeezed out, wounded and dying and mad with fear, on to the hill above the burn. Both sides were weary men, or there would have been a grim slaughter. As it was, none followed the runners, and every now and again a Scot would drop like a log, not from wounds but from dead weariness.

  Harden’s flare was dying down. Dawn was breaking, and Sim’s wild eyes cleared. He saw the press of cattle, dazed with fright, and the red and miry heather. Queer black things were curled and stretched athwart it. He noticed a dead man beside him, perhaps of his own slaying. It was a shabby fellow, in a jacket that gaped like Sim’s. The face was thin and patient, and the eyes, even in death, looked puzzled and reproachful. It would be one of the plain folk who had to ride, willy-nilly, on bigger men’s quarrels. Sim found himself wondering if he, also, had a famished wife and child at home. The fury of the night had gone, and Sim began to sob from utter tiredness.

  He slept in what was half a swoon. When he woke the sun was well up in the sky and the Scots were cooking food. His arm irked him, and his head burned like fire. He felt his body and found nothing worse than bruises, and one long shallow scar where his jacket was torn.