John Burnet of Barns: A Romance

by John Buchan

  CHAPTER XII

  I WITNESS A VALIANT ENDING

  They had scarce been five minutes gone when the full folly of my actiondawned upon me. To be sure I had saved the miller from death, but I hadnow put my own neck in the noose. I had given them a clue to mywhereabouts: more, I had brought the hunt down on lower Tweeddale, whichbefore had been left all but unmolested. It was war to the knife. Icould look for no quarter, and my only chance lay in outstripping mypursuers. The dragoons dared not return immediately, for four unarmedsoldiers would scarcely face two resolute men, fully armed and stronglyposted. They could only ride to Abington, and bring the whole hornets'nest down on my head.

  Another reflection had been given to me by the sight of these men. Inall likelihood Gilbert had now returned and resumed the chief command ofthe troop, for otherwise there would have been no meaning in the journeyto Dawyck and lower Tweeddale which these fellows had taken. And nowthat my dear cousin had come back I might look for action. There was nowno more any question of foolish and sluggish soldiery to elude, but aman of experience and, as I knew well, of unmatched subtlety.

  The miller was for thanking me on his knees for my timely succour, but Icut him short. "There is no time," said I, "for long thanks. You musttake to the hills, and if you follow my advice you will hold over to thewestlands where your friends are, and so keep the pursuit fromTweeddale, which little deserves it. As for myself, I will go up theWormel, and hide among the scrogs of birk till evening. For the hillsare too bare and the light too clear to travel by day. To be kenspecklein these times is a doubtful advantage."

  So without more ado I took myself off, crossed the fields with greatcaution, and going up a little glen in the side of the big hill, found avery secure hiding-place in the lee of a craig among a tangle of hazelbushes. I had taken some food with me from the mill to provision meduring my night journey, and now I used a little of it for my afternoonmeal. In this place I lay all the pleasant hours after midday till Isaw the shadows lengthen and the sun flaming to its setting over theback of Caerdon. Then the cool spring darkness came down on the earth,and I rose and shook myself and set out on my way.

  I shall ever remember that long night walk over hill and dale to the CorWater for many reasons. First, from the exceeding beauty of the night,which was sharp and yet not cold, with a sky glittering with stars, andthin trails of mist on the uplands. Second, from the exceeding roughnessof the way, which at this season of the year makes the hills hard forwalking on. The frost and snow loosen the rocks, and there are widestretches of loose shingle, which is an accursed thing to pass over.Third, and above all, for the utter fatigue into which I fell just pastthe crossing of Talla. The way was over the Wormel and the Logan Burnhills as far as Kingledoors. There I forded Tweed and struck over thelow ridge to Talla Water. Thence the way was straight, and much thesame as that which I had come with Marjory. But now I had no such dearescort, and I give my word that my limbs ached and my head swamoftentimes ere I reached my journey's end.

  It was early dawning when I crossed the last ridge and entered the CorWater valley. There was no sign of life in that quiet green glen, athing that seemed eerie when one thought that somewhere in the hill infront men were dwelling. I found that short as had been my absence Ihad almost forgotten the entrance to the cave, and it was not withoutdifficulty that I made out the narrow aperture in the slate-grey rock,and entered.

  In the first chamber all was dark, which struck me with astonishment,since at five o'clock on a good spring day folk should be stirring. Butall was still, and it was not till I had come into the second chamber,which, as I have told, was the largest in the place, that there were anysigns of life. This was illumined in the first instance by a narrowcrevice in the rock which opened into a small ravine. The faintstruggling light was yet sufficient to see with, and by its aid I madeout the old man who had spoken with me on that first night of myjourney.

  He was sitting alone, staring before him as is the way with the blind,but at the sound of my steps he rose slowly to his feet. One could seethat the natural acuteness of his hearing was little impaired by years.I paused at the threshold and he stood listening; then he sank back inhis seat as if convinced it was no enemy.

  "Come in, John Burnet," he said, "I ken you well. How have you faredsince you left us? I trust you have placed the maid in safe keeping."

  I had heard before of that marvellous quickness of perception which theypossess who have lost some other faculty; but I had never yet hadillustration of it. So I was somewhat surprised, as I told him that allas yet was well, and that my lady was in good hands.

  "It is well," said he; "and, Master Burnet, I fear you have come back toa desolate lodging. As ye see, all are gone and only I am left.Yestreen word came that that had happened which we had long expected.There was once a man among us whom we cast out for evil living. He hasproved the traitor and there is no more safety here. They scatteredlast night, the puir feckless folk, to do for themselves among the moorsand mosses, and I am left here to wait for the coming of the enemy."

  "Do you hold your life so cheap," I cried, "that you would cast it awaythus? I dare not suffer you to bide here. I would be a coward indeedif I did not take care of you."

  A gleam of something like pleasure passed over his worn face. But hespoke gravely. "No, you are too young and proud and hot in blood. Youthink that a strong arm and a stout heart can do all. But I have a workto do in which none can hinder me. My life is dear to me, and I woulduse it for the best. But you, too, are in danger here; the soldiers maycome at any moment. If you go far to the back you'll find a narrow wayup which you can crawl. It'll bring ye out on the back side of the hill.Keep it well in mind, lad, when the time comes. But now, sit ye down,and give us your crack. There's a heap o' things I want to speir at ye.And first, how is auld Veitch at Smitwood? I once kenned him well, whenhe was a young, 'prising lad; but now I hear he's sair fallen in yearsand gien ower to the pleasures of eating and drinking."

  I told him all of the laird of Smitwood that I could remember.

  "It would be bonny on the muirs o' Clyde in this weather. I havena beenout o' doors for mony a day, but I would like fine to feel the hill-windand the sun on my cheek. I was aye used wi' the open air," and hisvoice had a note of sorrow.

  To me it seemed a strange thing that in the presence of the most deadlydanger this man should be so easy and undisturbed. I confess that Imyself had many misgivings and something almost approaching fear. Therewas no possibility of escape now, for though one made his way out of thecave when the soldiers came, there was little hiding on the barehillside. This, of course, was what the old man meant when he bade mestay and refused to go out of doors. It was more than I could do toleave him, but yet I ever feared the very thought of dying like a rat ina hole. My forebodings of my death had always been of an open, windyplace, with a drawn sword and more than one man stark before me. It waswith downcast eyes that I waited for the inevitable end, striving tocommend my soul to God and repent of my past follies.

  Suddenly some noise came to the quick ear of the old man, and he stoodup quivering.

  "John," he cried, "John, my lad, gang to the place I told ye. Ye'llfind the hole where I said it was, and once there ye needna fear."

  'Twas true, I was afraid, but I had given no signs of fear, and he hadlittle cause to speak of it. "Nay," I said haughtily, "I will not movefrom your side. It were a dastardly thing to leave you, and the two ofus together may account for some of the fiends. Besides there is asmuch chance of life here as out on the braeside, where a man can be seenfor miles."

  He gripped me fiercely by the arm so that I almost cried out for pain,and his voice came shrill and strange. "Gang where I tell ye, ye puirfool. Is this a time for sinfu' pride o' honour or mettle? Ye know notwhat evil is coming upon these men. Gang quick lest ye share it also."

  Something in his voice, in his eye, overcame me, and I turn
ed to obeyhim.

  As I went he laid his hand on my head. "The blessing o' man availethlittle, but I pray God that He be ever near you and your house, and thatye may soon hae a happy deliverance from all your afflictions. God blessand keep ye ever, and bring ye at the end to His ain place."

  With a heart beating wildly between excitement and sorrow I found thenarrow crevice, and crept upward till I came to the turning which led tothe air. Here I might have safely hid for long, and I was just on thepoint of going back to the old man and forcing him to come with me tothe same place of refuge, when I heard the sound of men.

  From my vantage-ground I could see the whole cave clearly and well. Icould hear the noise of soldiers fumbling about the entrance, and thevoice of the informer telling the way. I could hear the feet stumblingalong the passage, the clink of weapons, and the muttered words ofannoyance; and then, as I peered warily forth, I saw the band file intothe cave where sat the old man alone. It was as I expected: they weresome twenty men of my cousin's company, strangers to me for the most:but what most occupied my thoughts was that Gilbert was not with them.

  "By God, they're off," said the foremost, "and nothing left but thisauld dotterel. This is a puir haul. Look you here, you fellow,"turning to the guide, "you are a liar and a scoundrel, and if your thickhide doesna taste the flat o' my sword ere you're five hours aulder, myname's no Peter Moriston. You," this to the old man, "what's your name,brother well-beloved in the Lord?"

  At their first coming he had risen to his feet and taken his stand inthe middle of the cave, by the two great stone shafts which kept up theroof, for all the word like the pillars in some mighty temple. There hestood looking over their heads at something beyond, with a strange,almost pitying smile, which grew by degrees into a frown of anger.

  "Ye've come here to taunt me," said he, "but the Lord has prepared foryou a speedy visitation. Puir fools, ye shall go down quick to thebottomless pit like Korah, Dathan, and Abiram, and none shall be left totell the tale of you. Ye have led braw lives. Ye have robbed the widowand the fatherless, ye have slain by your numbers men ye darena havecome near singly, ye have been the devil's own braw servants, and, lads,ye'll very soon get your wages. Ye have made thae bonny lands o'Tweedside fit to spew ye forth for your wickedness. And ye think thatthere is nae jealous God in Heaven watching ower you and your doings andbiding His time to repay. But, lads, ye're wrang for yince. The men yethocht to take are by this time far from ye, and there is only one left,an auld feckless man, that will no bring muckle credit to ye. But Godhas ordained that ye shall never leave here, but mix your banes to a'time wi' the hillside stanes. God hae pity on your souls, ye that hadnae pity on others in your lives."

  And even as I watched, the end came, sudden and awful. Stretching outhis great arms, he caught the two stone shafts and with one mightyeffort pushed them asunder. I held my breath with horror. With a roarlike a world falling the roof came down, and the great hillside sankamong a ruin of rock. I was blinded by dust even in my secure seat, anddriven half-mad with terror and grief. I know not how I got to the air,but by God's good providence the passage where I lay was distinct fromthe cave, and a rift in the solid rock. As it was, I had to fight withfalling splinters and choking dust all the way. At last--and it seemedages--I felt free air and a glimmer of light, and with one fresh effortcrawled out beneath a tuft of bracken.

  And this is why at this day there is no cave at the Cor Water, nothingbut the bare side of a hill strewn with stones.

  When I gained breath to raise myself and look around, the sight wasstrange indeed. The vast cloud of dust was beginning to settle and thewhole desolation lay clear. I know not how to tell of it. It was likesome battlefield of giants of old time. Great rocks lay scattered amidthe beds of earth and shingle, and high up toward the brow of the hillone single bald scarp showed where the fall had begun.

  A hundred yards away, by his horse's side, gazing with wild eyes at thescene, stood a dragoon, doubtless the one whom the ill-fated company hadset for guard. I hastened toward him as fast as my weak knees wouldcarry me, and I saw without surprise that he was the Dutchman, JanHamman, whom I had already met thrice before. He scarce was aware of mypresence, but stood weeping with weakness and terror, and whimperinglike a child. I took him by the shoulder and shook him, until at last Ihad brought him back to his senses, and he knew me.

  "Where are they gone?" and he pointed feebly with his finger to thedownfall.

  "To their own place," I said, shortly. "But tell me one word. Where isyour captain, Gilbert Burnet, that he is not with you to-day?"

  The man looked at me curiously.

  "He is gone on another errand, down Tweed toward Peebles."

  Then I knew he was seeking for Marjory high and low and would never resttill he found her.

  "I will let you go," said I to the man, "that you may carry the tidingsto the rest. Begone with you quick. I am in no mood to look on such asyou this day."

  The man turned and was riding off, when he stopped for one word. "Youthink," he said, "that I am your enemy and your cousin's friend, andthat I serve under the captain for his own sweet sake. I will tell youmy tale. Three years ago this Captain Gilbert Burnet was in Leyden, andthere also was I, a happy, reputable man, prosperous and contented, withthe prettiest sweetheart in all the town. Then came this man. I neednot tell what he did. In a year he had won over the silly girl to hisown desires, and I was a ruined man for evermore. I am a servant in hiscompany who worked my fall. Remember then that the nearer I am toGilbert Burnet the worse it will fare with him." And he rode off, stillpale and shivering with terror.

  I mused for some time with myself. Truly, thought I, Gilbert has hisown troubles, and it will go hard with him if his own men turn againsthim. And I set it down in my mind that I would do my best to warn him ofthe schemes of the foreigner. For though it was my cousin's ownill-doing that had brought him to this, and my heart burned against himfor his villainy, it was yet right that a kinsman should protect one ofthe house against the plots of a common soldier.