Smouldering Fire

by D. E. Stevenson

  “Is the man a sort of ghillie?” she enquired.

  “I suppose so. MacNeil seems to have absolute confidence in him—said he was a ‘grand man with a boat’ and that he knew the island well. Altogether he seemed certain that the man would look after Linda all right—I got that much out of him.”

  “Well, that’s a comfort, anyhow,” said Mrs. Hetherington Smith, “and I suppose, now he knows where she is, he can take the motor-launch and fetch her home.”

  “He says it’s too rough.”

  “Too rough! But he must go.”

  “He says it’s impossible. It would be dangerous to attempt it. Even if he got there he says he could never get back again. We shall have to wait until the storm is over—”

  “D’you mean Linda will have to stay on the island all night?”

  “It looks like it,” said Mr. Hetherington Smith with a sigh.

  “That’s awful! Can’t we do anything?”

  “Well, what can we do? I know so little about it. MacNeil says the thing’s impossible—I’ve got to take his word for it. He says Linda is safer where she is, even if he could get there in the launch—which is doubtful. He knows the conditions and I don’t. I really feel we must go by what he says, Mary.”

  Dinner was an uncomfortable meal. Some of Mr. Hetherington Smith’s guests thought that “something should be done”; they did not specify what should be done, nor offer to take action themselves. Others—more conversant with the conditions—were aware that nothing could be done, until the storm was over, to rescue Mrs. Medworth. There were acrimonious passages between the two factions. The host and hostess were silent, occupied with their own thoughts. Mr. Wyllie was also silent. He felt guilty and ashamed, and, at the bottom of his heart, furiously angry with himself and everybody else. He was sure that everybody thought the whole affair his fault—that he had muddled things, been, at the least, criminally careless—but how was he to know the beastly storm was coming, or to suspect that the painter was not fixed to the boat? Painters always were fixed to boats, weren’t they? That was the whole object of a painter, wasn’t it? Mr. Wyllie had explained the whole thing to everybody, both singly and collectively, and nobody had been very helpful, nobody had said very much about it—they had grunted and looked the other way. Even his hostess, who could usually be depended upon for sympathy, was extraordinarily obtuse about the matter.

  The party broke up early and went to bed—if not to sleep. The wind had gone down a little by now and the actual storm was passing over. There was still an occasional growl of thunder from the distant hills. Mrs. Hetherington Smith went into her husband’s room.

  “I don’t see why MacNeil can’t go for her now,” she said. “The storm is nearly over and the wind has gone down. I think we ought to try. It may be uncomfortable for her on that island—the beds are sure to be damp.”

  “MacNeil will go directly it’s safe,” Mr. Hetherington Smith assured her. “He promised me he would, and he will. I can’t do any more, Mary.”

  Mary sighed. She didn’t believe that Linda couldn’t be fetched, but she realised it was no use saying any more about it.

  “Is the boy asleep?” enquired Mr. Hetherington Smith.

  “Sound as a top, the darling! I’ve just been in to look at him—he’s as pretty as a picture.”

  “Well, that’s a mercy!” said Mr. Hetherington Smith—referring to Richard’s condition rather than to his looks—“We’d better get to bed now and try to get some sleep ourselves. It’s the twelfth to-morrow, and I suppose if everything’s all right we shall have to have the shoot. I’m not looking forward to it, Mary, I can tell you.”

  * * * * *

  The news that Mrs. Medworth was safe and well was spread over the house by the bearers of morning tea. It was well received by all. Even those who had no special interest in Linda were delighted to hear of her safety, for, if “anything had happened,” the shoot would have had to be postponed. Now, all was well. Mrs. Medworth was safe and the storm had blown itself out. Watery sunshine, growing stronger every moment, poured in at the eastern windows, rousing the sluggards. Birds were singing, the earth was wet and goodly smelling. There was also a comforting and delicious smell of fried bacon drifting up the stairs.

  Linda arrived as the gong boomed loudly in the hall. She avoided the dining-room (she had breakfasted already) and ran up the stairs to Richard’s room. Mrs. Hetherington Smith was there with him, helping him to part his hair—it was a task Linda always undertook herself. She lingered in the doorway, unperceived, amused at their efforts.

  “That’s too near the miggle, Mrs. Hevverington Smith,” Richard was saying. “I think p’r’aps I’d better try myself. You see you’re not really accustomed to boys’ hair—” He turned round, and saw Linda, and, in a moment, he was in her arms.

  “My dear!” cried Mrs. Hetherington Smith. “My dear! There you are—what a Mercy!—Ah—um—how did you get on?” She controlled her transports for Richard’s sake, and the cry that they had been wild with anxiety was stifled at birth. She had told Richard that his mother was perfectly safe, and she had no wish to damn herself as a liar in the child’s eyes. “Were you in MacNeil’s cottage all night?” she continued, signalling frantically to Linda over Richard’s head. “What a storm it was! You would have got frightfully wet if you had tried to come home through all that rain.”

  “Oh, yes,” said Linda. “Yes, of course I would, frightfully wet.”

  They talked for a few minutes longer and then Linda yawned and expressed a desire to sleep. Mrs. Hetherington Smith hustled Richard down to breakfast and piled hot-water bottles into Linda’s bed with her own hands. She was now free to express her anxiety and did so. Linda told her tale between yawns. She could scarcely keep her eyes open.

  When Mrs. Hetherington Smith got down to breakfast she found that the shooters had finished their meal and the hall was full of the bustle of their departure. It was full of men in nailed boots with guns and cartridge bags. The drive was cluttered with ghillies and dogs. Mr. Hetherington Smith was speaking to Donald on the steps—he wore a worried expression.

  “But if we’ve got to ballot for places, how can you be sure that Mr. Stacey will get a good place?” he enquired anxiously. “Couldn’t we just arrange who’s to have which butt in every drive?”

  “It would not be the thing at all, at all,” Donald assured him. “The other gentlemen would not be liking that way. But if you would be leaving it to me, Mr. Hetherington Smith, then everything will be all right. You will see it will be all right, and there will be no difficulty at all.”

  Mr. Hetherington Smith had no option but to leave it to Donald. He turned away with a sigh and found his wife at his elbow enquiring about lunch. When and where was it to be sent? Donald was called back to solve the problem. He solved it without any difficulty.

  “It will be best to have lunch in the wee bothy on the moor,” he said gravely; “the wee bothy at Ballochgorm. If you will be telling them to have it ready at midday or soon after.” He told the chauffeur how the bothy was to be reached, and went out to give some final directions to the ragged group of beaters.

  A few minutes later the whole party moved off towards the first drive. The moors were so near the house that there was no need for cars. They walked through the woods and found themselves knee-deep in purple heather. Everything was astonishingly wet, and the heather was wettest of all. It was more like paddling than walking, Mr. Hetherington Smith decided. At every step the water was driven from the heather like spray. But, in spite of the discomfort, there was something rather pleasant about it—the sun was delightfully warm and there was a small fitful breeze. Mr. Hetherington Smith was enjoying himself until he suddenly found Mr. Stacey at his elbow.

  “Your keeper says I have drawn Number 3 in the first drive,” said Mr. Stacey. “You’re letting him arrange it?”

  “Yes,” replied Mr. Hetherington Smith. “At least there’s no arranging. We ballot for places—it’s the fairest me
thod, I always think.” He thought: I hope to Heaven Number 3 is a good place. Why on earth don’t I know more about it? I should have gone round with MacNeil and got him to explain, instead of pottering round shooting rabbits.

  “Well, of course it’s fair in one way,” Mr. Stacey replied. “But I’m usually damned unlucky, balloting. Sometimes people like to put the best shot in the best butt for the sake of the bag—” He laughed a little to cover the flagrancy of the hint.

  “One would like to do that, of course,” agreed the wretched host, with an equally forced laugh, “but I find that leads to a good deal of trouble sometimes—a good deal of unpleasantness. Anyhow, you seem to have been pretty lucky this time. Number 3 is an excellent position in this drive.” He thought: Now I’ve done it. Supposing it’s an absolutely rotten place—behind a hill or something—but MacNeil said it would be all right.

  They were approaching the butts for the first drive and taking up their positions. Donald had constituted himself loader to Mr. Hetherington Smith because he thought it as well to keep his eye on that gentleman. He was anxious for the gentleman not to make a fool of himself. In the excitement he might easily forget his careful instructions and loose off at the wrong moment. He might shoot a beater, or a dog. Donald felt confident that he could prevent these disasters if he were there, and he wanted to prevent them. He was fond of Mr. Hetherington Smith—increasingly fond of him. The gentleman was foolish in some ways—and lamentably ignorant—but there was something nice about him. His very helplessness and ignorance were endearing. Donald had resolved to be Mr. Hetherington Smith’s nurse, he intended to see that the gentleman got a fair chance and his due share of birds.

  Mr. Hetherington Smith found himself in Number 1 butt with Donald beside him and an astonishingly wet black dog between his legs. Sir Julius was in Number 2: Mr. Stacey in Number 3, and the others distributed down the line. Donald loaded the two guns and whispered some last-minute instructions. The birds would come over the shoulder of the hill, they would be flying low. Mr. Hetherington Smith was to wait until they were fairly near before firing, he was to choose a bird—one particular bird out of the covey—and swing well in front of it. Mr. Hetherington Smith nodded, he had heard all that before, the theory of grouse shooting was an open book to him. It was the practice he lacked. At the moment he was much more anxious as to whether or not Mr. Stacey was well placed. He enquired of Donald as to Mr. Stacey’s position in the drive—was he in a really good butt?

  “The gentleman has been very fortunate,” said Donald gravely. There was a ghost of a twinkle in his eye and the nearest approach to a smile that Mr. Hetherington Smith had yet seen on his rugged face.

  Mr. Hetherington Smith sighed with relief and turned his attention to the birds. They began to come over quite soon—there was a ragged volley of shots down the line. A few stragglers came over Number 1 butt—Mr. Hetherington Smith shot at several and missed.

  “If you would be waiting a wee bit longer—” Donald suggested.

  A covey came over as he spoke. Mr. Hetherington Smith was flustered and shot wildly into the brown with both barrels. A dark brown body fell with a queer thump just in front of the butt, it fluttered feebly for a moment and was still. Mr. Hetherington Smith had killed his first bird. He was inordinately excited, and, but for Donald’s restraining hand, he would have rushed out and retrieved it.

  The next covey—a small one—turned when it reached the shoulder of the hill and flew down the line. It was flying low and Donald was just in time to prevent Mr. Hetherington Smith from shooting the occupant of the next butt. He knocked up the barrel of the gun and the charge exploded harmlessly in the air. It was unfortunate that the butt of the gun should hit its owner on the ear, but it was a glancing blow and did no serious damage. Mr. Hetherington Smith took the accident in good part, and accepted Donald’s explanations and apologies very graciously.

  “Good heavens, it would have been frightful if I had killed Sir Julius!” he exclaimed.

  “Och, you would not have killed him!” said Donald comfortably. “Gentlemen are not so easily killed, but you might have annoyed him a little—gentlemen do not like to be shot at when they are out shooting.”

  The drive was now over. Donald collected the slain bird, and sent the black dog after a runner which really belonged to Sir Julius.

  “Have I shot two—I mean a brace?” enquired Mr. Hetherington Smith eagerly, as they walked down the hill to the next butt.

  Donald held up the two birds for him to see. There was no harm in claiming the runner, for Sir Julius had done quite well, and two birds were more than twice as good as one. Sir Julius was pleased with his own performance and displayed two and a half brace. Mr. Stacey in Number 3 had done terrific execution, there was a heap of brown feathers behind his butt and he was still urging his unpleasant bitch to locate another in the heather.

  “Perhaps you just wounded it,” suggested Mr. Hetherington Smith helpfully.

  Mr. Stacey turned and glared at him. “I’m not in the habit of wounding birds,” he said.

  “Good Lord, no, of course not. It was only a joke,” his host assured him, trying to retrieve his ghastly blunder.

  “H’m,” said Mr. Stacey. It was a peculiar sort of joke, he thought, but he had had excellent sport and was inclined to be magnanimous. No more was said and the three gentlemen with their loaders walked on down the hill.

  The other members of the party had acquitted themselves according to their capabilities; everyone was pleased except Jim Wyllie, who thought he had been allotted the worst position in the drive—but Jim Wyllie didn’t matter.

  Donald despatched the beaters to the next drive and led his flock over the hill. He was not worried about the beaters, for they were under the direction of one of his many cousins, a man who bore the same name as himself—Donald MacNeil. This man, to differentiate him from our Donald, was known to his intimates as Donald Dubh—or Black Donald—on account of his swarthy complexion. He was an excellent ghillie and absolutely reliable so long as there was no whisky about. It was unfortunate that Black Donald combined a fondness for whisky with the inability to stand it like a gentleman. One dram went straight to his head and made him belligerent—not to say dangerous—two drams laid him out. If Black Donald had one dram there was usually somebody willing—not to say eager—to stand him another. He was a powerful man. Donald was aware of his cousin’s weakness, as indeed was everybody in the glen. They were all very sorry for him; it was generally agreed that Black Donald was much to be pitied.

  The shooters walked over the shoulder of the hill. The heather here was not so high, but it was still troublesome to Mr. Hetherington Smith. The strong woody stems twined themselves round his ankles and impeded his progress. He fell into holes and stumbled into boggy patches which looked as if they would afford firm foothold, but were really a delusion. Donald pulled him out of several of these devilish snares and adjured him to “be avoiding the sphagnum now.” It was all very difficult; he envied Donald’s careless stride.

  The sun was gaining strength, and sucking up the moisture from the heather; the cap of mist on Ben Falloch was thinning rapidly; a lark soared up from their feet and sang lustily in the blue sky. They skirted a sheep bank of unmortared stones and found their butts on the other side.

  The second drive was much like the first except for the rearrangement of the shooters. Mr. Stacey was again fortunate in his position, he had number 5. Mr. Hetherington Smith was in number 3, with Mr. Proudfoot on one side of him and Colonel White on the other. He acquitted himself better this time, shooting when Donald told him to shoot, and withholding his fire when the birds passed between the butts.

  After this they climbed higher, the ground became more rocky—a few gnarled pine-trees clung with bare distorted roots to the stony soil. The earth was shallow, the skin had split, as it were, and the bones were showing through. There was little heather here and Mr. Hetherington Smith was glad. They scrambled up a scree of gritty stones and foun
d themselves on the flank of the hill. Mr. Hetherington Smith had drawn number 8; it was the highest of all, and was out of sight of the others, on account of an outcrop of boulderous rock. He scrambled into his butt and sat down. He was panting after his climb and perspiring freely. It was extremely hot and there was no shade of any description, the sun seemed to be straight over his head; it glared down, golden, baking, dazzling.

  Mr. Hetherington Smith mopped his red face. “You shoot this time,” he said to Donald.

  “Well,” said Donald doubtfully. “But you must not be telling the others. It is not the thing at all.”

  “Nobody will know,” said Mr. Hetherington Smith, “so if you would like to—”

  “Och, I would be liking it fine—and it would be a help to our bag—so it would.”

  Mr. Hetherington Smith didn’t mind about their bag—he had not yet learned the importance of a good bag—he was merely tired and very hot, and disinclined for further slaughter.

  Donald loaded the guns carefully, and took up his position—it was lucky that the butt was out of sight of the others. He handled the guns reverently—he had never seen such guns in his life. The birds were a long time in starting to come over—so long that Donald began to wonder, a little anxiously, whether his swarthy namesake had discovered any whisky. There was just a possibility that the beaters had met the lunch. However, they began to come over at last and they came quickly down-wind. Donald had a busy five minutes and trebled Mr. Hetherington Smith’s bag. It was grand sport. They collected the slain and walked down the hill to meet the others. Mr. Stacey was in high good humour. Jim Wyllie was somewhat distrait; he confided to his host that Mr. Proudfoot had shot a bird directly over his head. “The man’s not safe,” he said earnestly. “He ought not to be trusted with anything more lethal than a pop-gun. Look at him now!”

  Mr. Hetherington Smith looked, but he could see nothing wrong with Mr. Proudfoot—“I see what you mean,” he said.