by John Buchan
CHAPTER VIII
OF OUR WANDERINGS AMONG THE MOORS OF CLYDE
If there had been haste before in our journey there was the more now,when in a few hours the countryside would be alive with our foes. Ihurriedly considered in my mind the course of events. In three hours'riding the soldiers, all stark as they were, would come to Abington, andin three more the road to Douglasdale would be blocked by a dozencompanies. It was no light thing thus to have set the whole hell's bykein Clydesdale buzzing about my ears.
We were not long in reaching the cave. Here to my joy I found Marjoryall recovered from her fright, and the wound hurting her no more than apin's scratch. When I spoke of immediate progress she listened gladlyand was for setting out forthwith. I did not tell her of the soldiers'discomfiture, for I knew that she would fall to chiding me for myfoolhardiness, and besides she would have more dismal fears for myfuture if she knew that I had thus incensed the military against me.
It was with much regret that I bade farewell to Master Lockhart and theold man; nor would they let me go without a promise that if I foundmyself hard pressed at any time in the days to come I would take refugewith them. I was moved by the sight of the elder, who laying his handon my lady's head, stroked her fair golden hair gently and said, "Puirlass, puir lass, ye're no for the muirs. I foresee ill days coming forye when ye'll hae nae guid sword to protect ye. But lippen weel to theLord, my bairn, and He'll no forsake ye." So amid the speaking offarewells and well-wishes we rode out into the green moors.
How shall I tell of that morning ride? I have seen very many days inApril now, for I am a man aging to middle life, but never have I seenone like that. The sky was one sheet of the faintest blue, with delicatewhite clouds blown lightly athwart it. The air was so light that itscarce stirred the grass, so cool that it made our foreheads as crispand free as on a frosty winter's day, so mild that a man might havefancied himself still in the Low Lands. The place was very quiet savefor a few sounds and these the most delectable on earth--the cries ofsheep and the tender bleating of young lambs, the rise and fall of thestream, the croon of rock pigeons, and the sterner notes of curlew andplover. And the grass was short and lawnlike, stretching in wavy ridgesto the stream, seamed with little rush-fringed rills and patched withfields of heath. Only when we gained the edge had we any view ofcountry, and even then it was but circumscribed. Steep fronting hills,all scarred with ravines; beyond, shoulders and peaks rising ever intothe distance, and below us the little glen which holds the head watersof Tweed.
We crossed the river without slacking rein, for the water scarce reachedabove our horses' pasterns. And now we struck up a burn called theBadlieu, at the foot of which was a herd's shieling. The spirit of thespring seemed to have clean possessed Marjory and I had never seen herso gay. All her past sorrows and present difficulties seemed forgotten,and a mad gaiety held her captive. She, who was for usual so demure,now cast her gravity to the winds, and seemed bent on taking all thejoys of the fair morning. She laughed, she sang snatches of old songs,and she leaped her horse lightly over the moss-trenches. She stooped topluck some early white wind-flowers, and set some in her hair and someat her saddle-bow.
"Nay, John," she cried, "if you and I must take to the hills let us doit with some gallantry. It is glorious to be abroad. I would givetwelve months of sleepy peace at Dawyck for one hour of this life. Ithink this must be the Garden of Perpetual Youth in the fairy tale."
The same mad carelessness took hold on me also. Of a sudden my outlookon the world changed round to the opposite, and the black forebodingswhich had been ever present to distress me, seemed to vanish like dewbefore the sun. Soon I was riding as gaily as she; while Nicol, as heran with great strides and unfaltering breath, he too becamelight-hearted, though to tell the truth care was not a commodity oftenfound with him.
Soon we had climbed the low range which separates the Clyde glen fromthe Tweed and turned down the narrow ravine of the burn which I thinkthey call Fopperbeck, and which flows into the Evan Water. Now it wouldhave been both easier and quieter to have ridden down the broad, lowglen of the Medlock Water, which flows into Clyde by the village ofCrawford. But this would have brought us perilously near the soldiersat Abington, and if once the pursuit had begun every mile of distancewould be worth to us much gold. Yet though the danger was so real Icould not think of it as any matter for sorrow, but awaited what fateGod might send with a serene composure, begotten partly of my habitualrashness and partly of the intoxication of the morn.
We kept over the rocky ravine through which the little river Evan flowsto Annan, and came to the wide moorlands which stretch about the upperstreams of Clyde. Here we had a great prospect of landscape, and far aseye could see no living being but ourselves moved in these desolatewastes. Far down, just at the mouth of the glen where the vale widenssomewhat, rose curling smoke from the hamlet of Elvanfoot, a place soonto be much resorted to and briskly busy, since, forbye lying on thehighway 'twixt Edinburgh and Dumfries, it is there that the by-path goesoff leading to the famous lead mines, at the two places of Leadhills andWanlockhead. But now it was but a miserable roadside clachan of somefew low huts, with fodder for neither man nor beast.
As we rode we looked well around us, for we were in an exceedingdangerous part of our journey. To the right lay Abington and the lowerClyde valley, where my sweet cousin and his men held goodly fellowship.Even now they would be buckling saddle-straps, and in two hours would bein the places through which we were now passing. To the left was thelong pass into Nithsdale, where half a score of gentlemen did their bestto instil loyalty into the Whigs of the hills. I hated the land to thatairt, for I had ever loathed the south and west countries, where thereis naught but sour milk and long prayers without a tincture of gentriceor letters. I was a man of Tweeddale who had travelled and studied andmingled among men. I had no grudge against sheltering with theTweedside rebels, who were indeed of my own folk; but I had no stomachfor Nithsdale and Clydesdale rant and ill fare. Had not necessitydriven me there I vow I should never have ventured of myself; and as Irode I swore oftentimes that once I were free of my errand I would seekmy refuge in my own countryside.
And now we were climbing the long range which flanks the Potrail Water,which is the larger of the twin feeders of Clyde. Now we turned more tothe north, and skirting the wild hills which frown around the pass ofEnterkin, sought the upper streams of the Duneaton Water. I cannot callto mind all the burns we crossed or the hills we climbed, though theyhave all been told to me many a time and again. One little burn Iremember called the Snar, which flowed very quietly and pleasantly in adeep, heathery glen. Here we halted and suffered our horses to graze,while we partook of some of the food which the folk of the Cor Water hadsent with us. Now the way which we had come had brought us within sevenmiles of the dragoons' quarters at Abington, for it was necessary topass near them to get to Douglasdale and Smitwood. But they had no clueto our whereabouts, and when they set forth against us must needs ridefirst to the Tweed valley.
Here in this narrow glen we were in no danger save from some chancewandering soldier. But this danger was the less to be feared, since ifGilbert had any large portion of his men out on one errand he would besure to set the rest to their duties as garrison. For my cousin had nolove for lax discipline, but had all the family pride of ordering andbeing obeyed to the letter. So we kindled a little fire by thestream-side, and in the ashes roasted some eggs of a muirfowl whichNicol had picked up on the journey; and which with the cheese and thecakes we had brought made a better meal than I might hope for for manydays to come. We sat around the fire in the dry heather 'neath thegenial sun, thanking God that we were still alive in the green world andwith few cares save the frustrating of our foes. Marjory was somewhatless cheerful than in the morning, partly from the fatigue of riding,which in these waste places is no light thing, and partly becauseanxiety for my safety and sorrow at our near parting were beginning
tooppress her. For herself, I verily believe, she had no care, for shewas brave as a lion in the presence of what most women tremble at. Butthe loneliness of a great house and the never-appeased desire forknowledge of my safety were things which came nearer so rapidly that Idid not wonder she lost her gaiety.
"Oh, what will you do alone in these places?" she said. "If you had butone with you, I should be comforted. Will you not let Nicol accompanyyou?"
Now when my lady looked at me with melting eyes and twined her hands inher eagerness, it was hard to have to deny her. But I was resolved thatmy servant should abide at Smitwood to guard her and bring me tidings ifaught evil threatened.
"Nay, dear," I said, "that may not be. I cannot have you left with anold man who is helpless with age and a crew of hireling servants. Ishould have no heart to live in the moors if I had not some hope of yoursafety. Believe me, dear, I can very well defend myself. My skill ofhillcraft is as good as any dragoon's, and I have heard folk say that Iam no ill hand with a sword. And I know the countryside like the palmof my own hand, and friends are not few among these green glens. Trustme, no ill will come near me, and our meeting will be all the merrierfor our parting."
I spoke heartily, but in truth I was far from feeling such ease of mind.For my old cursed pride was coming back, and I was beginning to chafeagainst the beggarly trade of skulking among the moors when I had a fineheritage for my own, and above all when I was a scholar and had thoughtsof a peaceful life. I found it hard to reconcile my dream of aphilosophic life wherein all things should be ordered according to thedictates of reason, with the rough and ready times which awaited me,when my sword must keep my head, and my first thought must be of meatand lodging, and cunning and boldness would be qualities more valuablethan subtle speculation and lofty imagining.
In a little we were rested and rode on our way. Across the great moorsof Crawfordjohn we passed, which is a place so lonely that the men inthese parts have a proverb, "Out of the world and into Crawfordjohn."We still kept the uplands till we came to the springs of a burn calledthe Glespin, which flows into the Douglas Water. Our easier path hadlain down by the side of this stream past the little town of Douglas.But in the town was a garrison of soldiers--small, to be sure, andfeeble, but still there--who were used to harry the moors aroundCairntable and Muirkirk. So we kept the ridges till below us we saw theriver winding close to the hill and the tower of Smitwood looking out ofits grove of trees. By this time darkness was at hand, and the lastmiles of our journey were among darkening shadows. We had little fearof capture now, for we were on the lands of the castle, and Veitch ofSmitwood was famed over all the land for a cavalier and a most loyalgentleman. So in quiet and meditation we crossed the stream at theford, and silently rode up the long avenue to the dwelling.
