Flower o' the Heather: A Story of the Killing Times
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Title: Flower o' the Heather: A Story of the Killing Times
Creator: Robert William MacKenna
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Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FLOWER O' THE HEATHER: A STORY OF THE KILLING TIMES ***
Produced by Al Haines.
FLOWER O' THE HEATHER
A STORY OF THE KILLING TIMES
BY ROBERT WILLIAM MACKENNA
AUTHOR OF "THE ADVENTURE OF DEATH," "THE
ADVENTURE OF LIFE," "THROUGH A TENT DOOR"
LONDON
JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET, W.
FIRST EDITION ...... October, 1922
Reprinted .......... October, 1922
Reprinted .......... December, 1922
Reprinted .......... January, 1923
Reprinted .......... November, 1923
Reprinted .......... January, 1925
Reprinted, 3s. 6d. . May, 1925
Reprinted .......... July, 1926
Reprinted .......... August..1926
Reprinted .......... January, 1926
Reprinted, 2s. ..... May, 1920
Reprinted .......... January, 1927
Reprinted, 3s. 6d. . May, 1927
_Printed in Great Britain by
Hazell, Watson & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury._
TO
JAMES MACKENNA, C.I.E., I.C.S.
*CONTENTS*
CHAPTER
I. On Devorgilla's Bridge
II. Trooper Bryden of Lag's Horse
III. By Blednoch Water
IV. The Tavern Brawl
V. In the Dark of the Night
VI. In the Lap of the Hills
VII. The Flute-player
VIII. A Covenanter's Charity
IX. The Story of Alexander Main
X. The Field Meeting
XI. Flower o' the Heather
XII. The Greater Love
XIII. Pursued
XIV. In the Slough of Despond
XV. In the Haven of Daldowie
XVI. Andrew Paterson, Hill-Man
XVII. An Adopted Son
XVIII. The Wisdom of a Woman
XIX. The Making of a Daisy Chain
XX. Love the All-Compelling
XXI. The Hired Man
XXII. "The Least of these, My brethren"
XXIII. The Search
XXIV. Baffled
XXV. The Shattering of Dreams
XXVI. Hector the Packman
XXVII. On the Road to Dumfries
XXVIII. For the Sweet Sake of Mary
XXIX. Beside the Nith
XXX. In the Tiger's Den
XXXI. The Cave by the Linn
XXXII. Toilers of the Night
XXXIII. The Going of Hector
XXXIV. The Flight of Peter Burgess
XXXV. Within Sight of St. Giles
XXXVI. For the Sake of the Covenant
XXXVII. "Out of the snare of the Fowlers"
XXXVIII. The Passing of Andrew and Jean
XXXIX. False Hopes
XL. I seek a Flower
XLI. In the Hands of the Persecutors
XLII. In the Tolbooth of Dumfries
XLIII. By the Tower of Lincluden
XLIV. "Quo Vadis, Petre?"
XLV. On the Wings of the Sea-Mew
XLVI. Sunshine after Storm
XLVII. The End; and a Beginning
*FLOWER O' THE HEATHER*
*CHAPTER I*
*ON DEVORGILLA'S BRIDGE*
It is a far cry from the grey walls of Balliol College to the sands at
Dumfries, and there be many ways that may lead a man from the one to the
other. So thought I, Walter de Brydde of the City of Warwick, when on
an April morning in the year of grace 1685 I stood upon Devorgilla's
bridge and watched the silver Nith glide under the red arches.
I was there in obedience to a whim; and the whim, with all that went
before it--let me set it down that men may judge me for what I was--was
the child of a drunken frolic. It befell in this wise.
I was a student at Balliol--a student, an' you please, by courtesy, for
I had no love for book-learning, finding life alluring enough without
that fragrance which high scholarship is supposed to lend it.
It was the middle of the Lent term, and a little band of men like-minded
with myself had assembled in my room, whose window overlooked the
quadrangle, and with cards, and ribald tales, and song, to say nothing
of much good beer, we had spent a boisterous evening. Big Tom had
pealed five score and one silvery notes from Christ Church Tower, and
into the throbbing silence that followed his mighty strokes, I, with the
fire of some bold lover, had flung the glad notes of rare old Ben's
"Song to Celia." A storm of cheers greeted the first verse, and, with
jocund heart, well-pleased, I was about to pour my soul into the
tenderness of the second, when Maltravers, seated in the window-recess,
interrupted me.
"Hush!" he cried, "there's a Proctor in the Quad, listening: what can he
want?" Now when much liquor is in, a man's wits tend to forsake him,
and I was in the mood to flout all authority.
"To perdition with all Proctors!" I exclaimed. "The mangy spies!" And I
strode to the window and looked out.
In the faint moonlight I saw the shadowy figure of a man standing with
face upturned at gaze below my window. The sight stirred some spirit of
misrule within me, and, flinging the window wide, I hurled straight at
the dark figure my leathern beer-pot with its silver rim. The contents
struck him full in the face, and the missile fell with a thud on the
lawn behind him. There was an angry splutter; the man drew his sleeve
across his face, and stooping picked up the tankard. In that moment
some trick of movement revealed him, and Maltravers gasped "Zounds!
It's the Master himself."
And so it proved--to my bitter cost. Had I been coward enough to seek
to hide my identity, it would have been useless, for the silver rim of
my leather jack bore my name. Thus it came to pass that I stood, a
solitary figure, with none to say a word in my behoof before the Court
of Discipline.
I felt strangely forlorn and foolish as I made obeisance to the
President and his six venerable colleagues. I had no defence to offer
save that of drunkenness, and, being sober now, I was not fool enough to
plead that offence in mitigation of an offence still graver: so I held
my peace. The Court found me guilty--they could do none other; and in
sonorous Latin periods the President delivered sentence. I had no
degree of which they could deprive me: they were unwilling, as this was
my first appearance before the Court, to pronounce upon me a sentence of
permanent expulsion, but my grave offence must be dealt with severely.
I must make an apology in person to the Master; and I should be
rusticated for one year. I bowed to the Court, and then drew myself up
to let these grey-beards, who were shaking their heads together over the
moral delinquencies of the rising generation, see that I could take my
punishment like a man. The Proctor touched me on the arm; my gown
slipped from my shoulders. Then I felt humbled to the dust. I was
without the pale. The truth struck home and chilled my heart more than
all the ponderous Latin periods which had been pronounced over me.
The Court rose and I was free to go.
Out in the open, I was assailed by an eager crowd of sympathisers.
Youth is the age of generous and unreasoning impulses--and youth tends
ever to take the side of the condemned, whatever his offence. Belike it
is well for the world.
I might have been a hero, rather than a man disgraced.
"So they have not hanged, drawn, and quartered you," cried Maltravers,
as he slipped his arm through mine.
"Nor sent you to the pillory," cried another.
I told the crowd what my punishment was to be.
"A scurrilous shame," muttered a sympathiser. "What's the old place
coming to? They want younger blood in their Court of Discipline. Sour
old kill-joys the whole pack of them: nourished on Latin roots till any
milk of human kindness in them has turned to vinegar."
I forced a laugh to my lips. "As the culprit," I said, "I think my
punishment has been tempered with mercy. I behaved like a zany. I
deserve my fate."
"Fac bono sis animo: cheer up," cried Maltravers, "the year will soon
pass: and we shall speed your departure on the morrow, in the hope that
we may hasten your return."
I went to my rooms and packed up my belongings, sending them to the inn
on the Banbury Road, where on the morrow I should await the coach for
Warwick. Then I made my way to the Master and tendered him my apology.
He accepted it with a courtly grace that made me feel the more the
baseness of my offence. The rest of the day I spent in farewell visits
to friends in my own and other colleges--and then I lay down to rest.
Little did I think, as I lay and heard the mellow notes of Big Tom throb
from Tom Tower, that in a few weeks I should be lying, a fugitive, on a
Scottish hill-side. The future hides her secrets from us behind a
jealous hand.
Morning came, and I prepared to depart. No sooner had I passed out of
the College gateway than I was seized by zealous hands, and lifted
shoulder high. In this wise I was borne to the confines of the City by
a cheerful rabble--to my great discomfort, but to their huge amusement.
The sorrow they expressed with their lips was belied by the gaiety
written on their faces, and though they chanted "_Miserere Domine_"
there was a cheerfulness in their voices ill in keeping with their
words.
When we came to the confines of the City my bearers lowered me roughly
so that I fell in a heap, and as I lay they gathered round me and
chanted dolorously a jumble of Latin words. It sounded like some
priestly benediction--but it was only the reiterated conjugation of a
verb. When the chant was ended Maltravers seized me by the arm and drew
me to my feet: "Ave atque vale, Frater: Good-bye, and good luck," he
said.
Others crowded round me with farewells upon their lips, the warmth of
their hearts speaking in the pressure of their hands. I would fain have
tarried, but I tore myself away. As I did so Maltravers shouted, "A
parting cheer for the voyager across the Styx," and they rent the air
with a shout. I turned to wave a grateful hand, when something tinkled
at my feet. I stooped and picked up a penny: "Charon's beer money,"
shouted a voice. "Don't drink it yourself,"--at which there was a roar
of laughter. So I made my way to The Bay Horse, sadder at heart, I
trow, than was my wont.
The follies of youth have a glamour when one is in a crowd, but the
glamour melts like a morning mist when one is alone. I seated myself in
the inn parlour to await the coach for Warwick, and as I sat I pondered
my state. It was far from pleasing. To return disgraced to the house
of my uncle and guardian was a prospect for which I had little heart.
Stern at the best of times, he had little sympathy with the ways of
youth, and many a homily had I listened to from his sour lips. This
last escapade would, I knew, be judged without charity. I had disgraced
my family name, a name that since the days when Balliol College was
founded by Devorgilla had held a place of honour on the college rolls.
For generations the de Bryddes had been _alumni_, and for a de Brydde to
be sent down from his Alma Mater for such an offence as mine would lay
upon the family record a blot that no penitence could atone for or good
conduct purge. So my reception by my guardian was not likely to be a
pleasant one. Besides there was this to be thought of: during my last
vacation my uncle, a man of ripe age, who had prided himself upon the
stern resistance he had offered all his life to what he called the
"wiles of the sirens," had, as many a man has done, thrown his
prejudices to the winds and espoused a young woman who neither by birth
nor in age seemed to be a suitable wife for him. A young man in love
may act like a fool, but an old man swept off his feet by love for a
woman young enough to be his granddaughter can touch depths of
foolishness that no young man has ever plumbed. So, at least, it seemed
to me, during the latter half of my vacation, after he had brought home
his bride. She was the young apple of his aged eye, and there was no
longer any place for me in his affections.
I turned these things over in my mind, and then I thought longingly of
my little room at Balliol. To numb my pain I called for a tankard of
ale. As I did so my eye was caught by a picture upon the wall. It was
a drawing of my own college, and under it in black and staring letters
was printed: "Balliol College, Oxford. Founded by the Lady Devorgilla
in memory of her husband John Balliol. The pious foundress of this
college also built an Abbey in Kirkcudbrightshire and threw a bridge
over the Nith at Dumfries. _Requiescat in pace_."
A sudden fancy seized me. Why need I haste me home? Surely it were
wiser to disappear until the storm of my guardian's wrath should have
time to subside. I would make a pilgrimage. I would hie me to Dumfries
and see with my own eyes the bridge which the foundress of Balliol had
caused to be built: and on my pilgrimage I might perchance regain some
of my self-respect. The sudden impulse hardened into resolution as I
quaffed my ale. Calling for pen and paper I proceeded to write a letter
to my uncle. I made no apology for my offence, of which I had little
doubt he would receive a full account from the college authorities; but
I told him that I was minded to do penance by making a pilgrimage to
Devorgilla's bridge at Dumfries and that I should return in due time.
As I sealed the letter the coach drew up at the door, and I gave it to
the post-boy. With a sounding horn and a crack of the whip the coach
rolled off, and, standing in the doorway, I watched it disappear in a
cloud of dust. Then I turned into the inn again and prepared to settle
my account. As I did so I calculated that in my belt I had more than
thirty pounds, and I was young--just twenty--and many a man with youth
upon his side and much less money in his purse has set out to see the
world. So I took courage and, having pledged the goodman of the house
to take care of my belongings against my return, I purchased from him a
good oak staff and set out upon my journey.
Thus it was that a month later I stood, as I have already told, upon the
bridge at Dumfries. A farm cart, heavily laden, rolled along it, and
lest I should be crushed against the wall I stepped into the little
alcove near its middle to let the wagon pass. It rattled ponderously
over the cobbled road and as it descended the slope towards the Vennel
Port there passed it, all resplendent in a flowing red coat thrown back
at the skirt to display its white lining, the swaggering figure of a
gigantic soldier. He stalked leisurely along the bridge towards me, and
as he passed I looked at him closely. His big, burnished spurs clanked
as he walked and the bucket tops of his polished jack-boots moved to the
bend of his knees. From his cocked hat a flesh-coloured ribbon
depended, falling upon his left shoulder, and touching the broad
cross-strap of his belt, which gripped his waist like a vice, so that he
threw out his chest--all ornate with a blue plastron edged with silver
lace--like a pouter pigeon. In his right hand he carried a supple cane
with which ever and anon he struck his jack-boot. Behind him, at a
prudent distance, followed two boys, talking furtively, lip to ear. As
they passed me I heard the one whisper to the other:
"Liar! It's the King richt eneuch. My big brither tellt me, and he
kens!"
"It's naething o' the kind," said the other. "I'll hit ye a bash on the
neb. He's only a sergeant o' dragoons," and without more ado the lads
fell upon each other.
What the issue might have been I cannot tell, for, hearing the scuffle
behind him, the sergeant turned and began to retrace his steps. At the
sound of his coming the combatants were seized with panic; their enmity
changed to sudden friendship, and together they raced off towards the
town. The sergeant descended upon me, and tapping me on the chest with
the butt of his stick, said:
"You're a likely young man. What say you to taking service wi' His
Majesty? It's a man's life, fu' o' adventure and romance. The women,
God bless them, canna keep their een off a sodger's coat. Are ye game
to 'list? There are great doings toward, for the King wants men to root
out the pestilent Whigs frae the West country. Will ye tak' the
shilling?"
The suggestion thus flung at me caught me at unawares. I turned it over
rapidly in my mind. Why not? As a soldier, I should see some of the
country, and if the worst came to the worst I had money enough in my
belt to buy myself out.
Moreover I might do something to redeem myself in the eyes of my
uncle--for had not the de Bryddes fought nobly on many a stricken field
for the King's Majesty. So, without more ado, I stretched out my hand,
and the King's shilling dropped into it.
"Come on," said the sergeant brusquely, "we maun toast the King at my
expense," and he led the way to the Stag Inn near the Vennel Port. In
the inn-parlour he called for drinks, and ogled the girl who brought
them. We drank to His Majesty--"God bless him:" and then the sergeant,
after toasting "The lassies--God bless them," became reminiscent and
garrulous. But ever he returned to wordy admiration of a woman:
"I tell ye," he said, "there's no' the marrow o' the Beadle o' St.
Michael's dochter in the hale o' Dumfries; an' that's sayin' a lot. The
leddies o' the King's Court--an' I've seen maist o' them--couldna haud a
candle tae her." He threw a kiss into the air; then he drank deeply and
called for more ale. "By the way," he said, "what dae ye ca'
yersel'?--and whaur did ye get sic legs? They're like pot-sticks, and
yer breist is as flat as a scone. But we'll pu' ye oot, and mak' a man
o' ye."
"My name is de Brydde," I replied, ignoring his criticisms of my person.
"De Brydde," he repeated. "It sounds French. Ye'd better ca' yersel'
Bryden. It's a guid Scots name, and less kenspeckle. Pu' yer shouthers
back, and haud up yer heid."
Two dragoons entered the tavern, and the sergeant was on his dignity.
"Tak' this recruit," he said, "to heidquarters, and hand him ower to the
sergeant-major. He's a likely chiel."
I rose to accompany the men, but the sergeant tapped me on the shoulder:
"Ye've forgotten to pay the score," he said. "Hey, Mary," and the
tavern maid came forward.
The King's shilling that was mine paid for the sergeant's hospitality.
It's the way of the army.
So I became Trooper Bryden of Lag's Horse.
*CHAPTER II*
*TROOPER BRYDEN OF LAG'S HORSE*
After the cloistered quiet of Balliol I found my new life passing
strange.
Sir Robert Grierson of Lag, our Commanding Officer, was a good soldier,
a martinet and a firm believer in the power of the iron hand. He was,
we knew, held in high favour by the authorities, and he had been granted
a commission to stamp out, by all means in his power, the pestilent and
bigoted pack of rebels in Dumfriesshire and Galloway who called
themselves Covenanters. He was quick of temper, but he did not lack a
kind of sardonic humour, nor was he without bravery. A King's man to
the core, he never troubled his mind with empty questionings; his orders
were to put down rebellion and to crush the Covenanters, and that was
enough for him.
My fellow-troopers interested me. Some of them were soldiers of fortune
who had fought upon the Continent of Europe--hard-bitten men, full of
strange oaths and stranger tales of bloody fights fought on alien soil.
In their eyes the life of a soldier was the only life worth living, and
they held in contempt less bellicose mortals who were content to spend
their days in the paths of peace. Of the rest, some were Highlanders,
dreamy-eyed creatures of their emotions, in which they reined in with a
firm hand in the presence of any Lowlander, but to which they gave free
vent when much liquor had loosened their tongues. Brave men all--from
their youth accustomed to hardship and bloodshed--fighting was as the
breath of their nostrils. To me, accustomed to the milder ales of
England, their capacity for the strong waters of the North was a
revelation. They could drink, undiluted, fiery spirits of a potency and
in a quantity that would have killed me. I never saw one drunk; and at
the end of an evening of heavy indulgence there was not a man among them
but could stand steady upon his feet and find his way unaided back to
billets. So far as I could see the only effect of their potations was
that after the fourth or fifth pot they became musical and would sing
love-songs in the Gaelic tongue with a moisture gathering in their eyes
like dewdrops. After that they tended to become theological, and would
argue angrily on points of doctrine too abstruse for me to follow. The
Lowlanders were a curious mixture of sentimentality and sound
common-sense. They carried their drink less well than the Highlanders,
but they too were men of unusual capacity--at least to my way of
thinking--and always passed through a theological phase on their way to
a condition of drunkenness.
I do not know whether my companions found as much interest in studying
me as I derived from observing them. Probably they pitied me, as the
Highlanders did the Lowlanders. I had not been born in Scotland: that,
in their eyes, was a misfortune which almost amounted to a disgrace. My
incapacity to rival them in their potations, and my inability to take
part in their theological discussions, made them regard me with
something akin to contempt. Once I overheard a Highlander whisper to a
Lowlander, "Surely she iss a feckless creature," and I guessed with a
feeling of abasement that he was speaking of me. On the whole, they
treated me with a rude kindliness, doing all they could to make me
acquainted with the elements of the rough-and-ready discipline which was
the standard of the troop, and protecting my ignorance, whenever they
dared, from the harsh tongue of the sergeant-major.
We were mounted men, but our weapons were those of foot-soldiers. Our
horses, stout little nags, known as Galloways, were simply our means of
conveyance from place to place. If we had been called upon to fight, we
should probably have fought on foot, and we were armed accordingly, with
long muskets which we bore either slung across our shoulders or
suspended muzzle-downwards from our saddle-peaks.
Equipped for rapid movement, we carried little with us save our weapons:
but under his saddle-flap each dragoon had a broad metal plate, and
behind the saddle was hung a bag of oatmeal. When we bivouacked in the
open, as many a time we did, each trooper made for himself on his plate,
heated over a camp fire, a farle or two of oat-cake, and with this
staved off the pangs of hunger. It was, as the sergeant had said, a
man's life--devoid of luxury, compact of hardship and scanty feeding,
with little relaxation save what we could find in the taverns of the
towns or villages where we halted for a time.
In my ignorance, I had thought that when we set out from Dumfries to
march through Galloway we should find, opposed to us somewhere, a force
of Covenanters who would give battle. I had imagined that these rebels
would have an army of their own ready to challenge the forces of the
King: but soon I learned that our warfare was an inglorious campaign
against unarmed men and women. We were little more than inquisitors.
In the quiet of an afternoon we would clatter up some lonely road to a
white farm-house--the hens scattering in terror before us--and draw rein
in the cobbled court-yard.
Lag would hammer imperiously upon the half-open door, and a terrified
woman would answer the summons.
"Whaur's the guid-man?" he would cry, and when the good-wife could find
speech she would answer:
"He's up on the hills wi' the sheep."
"Think ye," Lag would say, "will he tak' the Test?"
"Ay, he wull that. He's nae Whig, but a King's man is John,"--and to
put her words to the proof we would search the hills till we found him.
When found, if he took "The Test," which seemed to me for the most part
to be an oath of allegiance to the King, with a promise to have no
dealings with the pestilent Covenanters, we molested him no further, and
Lag would sometimes pass a word of praise upon his sheep or his cattle,
which would please the good-man mightily.
But often our raids had a less happy issue. As we drew near to a house,
we would see a figure steal hastily from it, and we knew that we were
upon the track of a villainous Covenanter. Then we would spur our
horses to the gallop and give chase: and what a dance these hill-men
could lead us. Some of them had the speed of hares and could leap like
young deer over boulders and streams where no horse could follow. Many a
sturdy nag crashed to the ground, flinging its rider who had spurred it
to the impossible; and if the fugitive succeeded in reaching the vast
open spaces of the moorland, many a good horse floundered in the bogs to
the great danger of its master, while the fleet-footed Covenanter, who
knew every inch of the ground, would leap from tussock to tussock of
firm grass, and far out-distance us.
Or again, we would learn that someone--a suspect--was hiding upon the
moors, and for days we would search, quartering and requartering the
great stretches of heather and bog-land till we were satisfied that our
quarry had eluded us--or until, as often happened, we found him.
Sometimes it was an old man, stricken with years, so that he could not
take to flight: sometimes it was a mere stripling--a lad of my own
age--surrounded in his sleep and taken ere he could flee. The measure of
justice meted to each was the same.
"Will ye tak' the Test?" If not--death, on the vacant moor, at the
hands of men who were at once his accusers, his judges, and his
executioners.
Sometimes when a fugitive had refused the Test, and so proclaimed
himself a Covenanter, Lag would promise him his life if he would
disclose the whereabouts of some others of more moment than himself. But
never did I know one of them play the coward: never did I hear one
betray another. Three minutes to prepare himself for death: and he
would take his bonnet off and turn a fearless face up to the open sky.
And then Lag's voice--breaking in upon the holy silence of the moorland
like a clap of thunder in a cloudless sky--"Musketeers! Poise your
muskets! make ready: present, give fire!" and another rebel would fall
dead among the heather.
The scene used to sicken me, so that I could hardly keep my seat in the
saddle, and in my heart I thanked God that I was judged too unskilful as
yet to be chosen as one of the firing party. That, of course, was
nothing more than sentiment. These men were rebels, opposed to the
King's Government, and such malignant fellows well deserved their fate.
Yet there began to spring up within me some admiration for their
bravery. Not one of them was afraid to die.
Sometimes, of a night, before sleep came to me, I would review the
events of the day--not willingly, for the long and grisly tale of horror
was one that no man would of set purpose dwell upon, but because in my
soul I had begun to doubt the quality of the justice we meted out. It
was a dangerous mood for one who had sworn allegiance to the King, and
taken service under his standard: but I found myself beginning to wonder
whether the people whom we were harrying so mercilessly and putting to
death with as little compunction as though they had been reptiles
instead of hard-working and thrifty folk--as their little farms and
houses proved--were rebels in any real sense. I had no knowledge, as
yet, of what had gone before, and I was afraid to ask any of my fellows,
lest my questioning should bring doubt upon my own loyalty. But I
wondered why these men, some gone far in eld and others in the morning
of their days, were ready to die rather than say the few words that
would give them life and liberty. Gradually the light broke through the
darkness of my thoughts, and I began to understand that in their bearing
there was something more than mere disloyalty to the King. They died
unflinching, because they were loyal to some ideal that was more
precious to them than life, and which torture and the prospect of death
could not make them forswear. Were they wrong? Who was I, to judge? I
knew nothing of their history, and when first I set out with Lag's Horse
I cared as little. I had ridden forth to do battle against rebels. I
found myself one of a band engaged in the hideous task of exercising
duress upon other men's consciences. The thought was not a pleasant
one, and I tried to banish it, but it would come back to me in the still
watches when no sound was audible but the heavy breathing of my sleeping
companions,--and no sophistry sufficed to stifle it.
Day after day we continued our march westward through Galloway, leaving
behind us a track of burning homesteads, with here and there a stark
figure, supine, with a bloody gash in his breast, and a weary face
turned up to the eternal sky. The sky was laughing in the May sunshine:
the blue hyacinths clustered like a low-lying cloud of peat-smoke in the
woods by the roadside, and the larks cast the gold of their song into
the sea of the air beneath them. The whole earth was full of joy and
beauty; but where we passed, we left desolation, and blood and tears.
As the sun was setting we rode down the valley of the Cree, whose
peat-dyed water, reddened by the glare in the sky, spoke silently of the
blood-stained moors which it had traversed in its course. A river of
blood: a fitting presage of the duties of the morrow that had brought us
to Wigtown!
*CHAPTER III*
*BY BLEDNOCH WATER*
Sharp and clear rang out the bugle notes of the reveille, rending the
morning stillness that brooded over the thatched houses of Wigtown. We
tumbled out of our beds of straw in the old barn where we had
bivouacked--some with a curse on their lips at such a rude awakening,
and others with hearts heavy at the thought of what lay before us. To
hunt hill-men among the boulders and the sheltering heather of their
native mountains was one thing: for the hunted man had a fox's chance,
and more than a fox's cunning: but it was altogether another thing to
execute judgment on two defenceless women, and only the most hardened
among us had any stomach for such devil's work. Inured to scenes of
brutality as I had become, I felt ill at ease when I remembered the task
that awaited us, and, in my heart, I nursed the hope that, when the
bugle sounded the assembly, we should learn that the prisoners had been
reprieved and that we could shake the dust of Wigtown from our feet
forever.
It was a glorious morning: and I can still remember, as though it were
yesterday, every little event of these early hours. I shook the straw
from my coat and went out. There was little sign of life in the street
except for the dragoons hurrying about their tasks. My horse, tethered
where I had left him the night before, whinnied a morning greeting as I
drew near. He was a creature of much understanding, and as I patted his
neck and gentled him, he rubbed his nose against my tunic. I undid his
halter and with a hand on his forelock led him to the watering trough.
The clear water tumbled musically into the trough from a red clay pipe
that led to some hidden spring; and as my nag bent his neck and dipped
his muzzle delicately into the limpid coolness, I watched a minnow dart
under the cover of the green weed on the trough-bottom. When I judged he
had drunk enough I threw a leg over his back and cantered down the
street to the barn where we had slept. There, I slipped the end of his
halter through a ring in the wall, and rejoined my companions who were
gathered round the door.
We had much to do; there was harness to polish, bridles and bits to
clean, and weapons to see to--for Sir Robert was a man vigilant, who
took a pride in the smartness of his troop.
"It's a bonnie mornin' for an ugly ploy," said Trooper Agnew, as I sat
down on a bench beside him with my saddle on my knees. From his tone I
could tell that his heart was as little in the day's work as mine.
"Ay, it's a bonnie morning," I replied, "too bonnie for the work we have
to do. I had fain the day was over, and the work were done, if done it
must be."
"Weel, ye never can tell: it may be that the women will be reprieved.
I've heard tell that Gilbert Wilson has muckle siller, and is ready to
pay ransom for his dochter: an' siller speaks when arguments are waste
o' wind." He spat on a polishing rag, and rubbed his saddle vigorously.
"They tell me he's bocht Aggie off: and if he can he'll buy off Marget
tae. But there's the auld woman Lauchlison: she has neither siller nor
frien's wi' siller, and I'm fearin' that unless the Royal Clemency comes
into play she'll ha'e tae droon."
"But why should they drown?" said I, voicing half unconsciously the
question that had so often perplexed me.
"Weel, that's a hard question," replied Agnew, as he burnished his bit,
"and a question that's no for the like o' you and me to settle. A' we
ha'e to dae is to carry oot the orders of our superior officers. We
maunna think ower muckle for oorsel's."
I was already well acquainted with this plausible argument, and indeed I
had heard Lag himself justify some of his acts by an appeal to such
dogma; but I was not satisfied, and ventured to remonstrate:
"Must we," I asked, "do things against which our conscience rebels,
simply because we are commanded to do so?"
Agnew hesitated for a moment before replying, passing the end of his
bridle very deliberately through a buckle, and fastening it with care.
"Conscience!" he said, and laughed. "What richt has a trooper to sic' a
thing? I've nane noo." He lowered his voice--and spoke quickly.
"Conscience, my lad! Ye'd better no' let the sergeant hear ye speak
that word, or he'll be reporting ye tae Sir Robert for a Covenanter, and
ye'll get gey short shrift, I'm thinkin'. Tak' the advice o' ane that
means ye nae ill, and drap yer conscience in the water o' Blednoch, and
say farewell tae it forever. If ye keep it, ye'll get mair blame than
praise frae it--and I'm thinkin' ye'll no' get ony promotion till ye're
weel rid o't."
"Whit's this I hear aboot conscience?" said Davidson, a dragoon who was
standing by the door of the barn.
"Oh, naething," said Agnew. "I was just advising Bryden here to get rid
o' his."
"Maist excellent advice," said Davidson. "A puir trooper has nae richt
to sic a luxury. Besides, it's a burden, and wi' a' his trappings he
has eneuch to carry already." He paused for a moment--looked into the
barn over his shoulder and continued: "To my way o' thinkin', naebody
has ony richt to a conscience but the King. Ye see it's this way. A
trooper maun obey his officers: he has nae richt o' private judgment, so
he has nae work for his conscience to do. His officers maun obey them
that are higher up--so they dinna need a conscience, and so it goes on,
up, and up till ye reach the King, wha is the maister o' us a'. He's
the only body in the realm that can afford the luxury: and even he finds
it a burden."
"I'm no surprised," interjected Agnew. "A conscience like that maun be
an awfu' encumbrance."
"Ay, so it is," replied Davidson. "They do say that the King finds it
sic a heavy darg to look after his conscience that he appoints a man to
be its keeper."
Agnew laughed. "Does he lead it about on a chain like a dog?" he asked.
"I canna tell you as to that," replied Davidson, "but it's mair than
likely, for it maun be a rampageous sort o' beast whiles."
"And what if it breaks away," asked Agnew, laughing again, "and fleshes
its teeth in the King's leg?"
"Man," said Davidson, "ye remind me: the very thing ye speak o' aince
happened. Nae doot the keeper is there to haud back his conscience frae
worrying the King, but I mind readin' that ane o' the keepers didna haud
the beast in ticht eneuch, and it bit the King. It had something to dae
wi' a wumman. I've forgotten the partic'lers: but I think the King was
auld King Hal."
"And what happened to the keeper?" asked Agnew.
"Oh, him," replied Davidson. "The King chopped his heid off. And that,
or something like it, is what will happen to you, my lad," he said,
looking meaningly at me, "if Lag hears ye talk ony sic nonsense. If thae
damnable Covenanters didna nurse their consciences like sickly bairns
they would be a bit mair pliable, and gi'e us less work."
I would gladly have continued the conversation, but we were interrupted
by the appearance of the cook, who came round the corner of the barn
staggering under the weight of a huge black pot full of our morning
porridge.
"Parritch, lads, wha's for parritch?" he called, setting down his load,
and preparing to serve out our portions with a large wooden ladle. We
filed past him each with our metal platter and a horn spoon in our
hands, and received a generous ladleful. The regimental cook is always
fair game for the would-be wit, and our cook came in for his share of
chaff; but he was ready of tongue, and answered jibe with jibe--some of
his retorts stinging like a whip-lash so that his tormentors were sore
and sorry that they had challenged him.
Soon the last man was served and all of us fell to.
When our meal was over there was little time left ere the assembly
sounded. As the bugle notes blared over the village, we flung ourselves
into our saddles, and at the word turned our horses up the village
street. The clatter of hoofs, and the jingle of creaking harness brought
the folks to their doors, for the appeal of mounted men is as old as the
art of war. We were conscious of admiring glances from many a lassie's
eye, and some of the roysterers among us, behind the back of authority,
gave back smile for smile, and threw furtive kisses to the comelier of
the women-folk.
Near the Tolbooth Sir Robert awaited us, sitting his horse motionless
like a man cut out of stone. A sharp word of command, and we reined our
horses in, wheeling and forming a line in front of the Tolbooth door.
There we waited.
By and by we heard the tramp of horses, and Colonel Winram at the head
of his company rode down the other side of the street and halted
opposite to us. Winram and Lag dismounted, giving their horses into the
charge of their orderlies, and walked together to the Tolbooth door.
They knocked loudly, and after a mighty clatter of keys and shooting of
bolts the black door swung back, and they passed in. We waited long,
but still there was no sign of their return. My neighbour on the right,
whose horse was champing its bit and tossing its head in irritation,
whispered: "They maun ha'e been reprievit."
"Thank God for that," I said, out of my heart.
But it was not to be. With a loud creak, as though it were in pain, the
door swung open, and there came forth, splendid in his robes of office,
Sheriff Graham. Followed him, Provost Coltran, Grier of Lag, and Colonel
Winram. Behind them, each led by a gaoler, came two women. Foremost
was Margaret Lauchlison, bent with age, and leaning on a stick, her thin
grey hair falling over her withered cheeks. She did not raise her eyes
to look at us, but I saw that her lips were moving silently, and a great
pity surged up in my breast and gripped me by the throat. Some four
paces behind her came Margaret Wilson, and as she passed out of the
darkness of the door she raised her face to the sky and took a long
breath of the clean morning air. She was straight as a willow-wand,
with a colour in her cheeks like red May-blossom, and a brave look in
her blue eyes. Her brown hair glinted in the sunlight, and she walked
with a steady step between the ranks of horsemen like a queen going to
her coronal. She looked curiously at the troopers as she passed us. I
watched her coming, and, suddenly, her big child-like eyes met mine, and
for very shame I hung my head.
Some twenty yards from the Tolbooth door, beside the Town Cross, the
little procession halted, and the town-crier, after jangling his cracked
bell, mounted the lower step at the base of the cross and read from a
big parchment:
"God save the King! Whereas Margaret Lauchlison, widow of John
Mulligan, wright in Drumjargon, and Margaret Wilson, daughter of Gilbert
Wilson, farmer in Penninghame, were indicted on April 13th, in the year
of grace 1685 before Sheriff Graham, Sir Robert Grierson of Lag, Colonel
Winram, and Captain Strachan, as being guilty of the Rebellion of
Bothwell Brig, Aird's Moss, twenty field Conventicles, and twenty house
Conventicles, the Assize did sit, and after witnesses heard did bring
them in guilty, and the judges sentenced them to be tied to palisadoes
fixed in the sand, within the floodmark of the sea, and there to stand
till the flood overflows them. The whilk sentence, being in accordance
with the law of this Kingdom, is decreed to be carried out this day, the
11th of May in the year of grace 1685. God Save the King."
When he ceased there was silence for a space, and then Grier of Lag, his
sword scraping the gravel as he moved, walked up to the older prisoner,
and shouted:
"Margaret Lauchlison, will ye recant?"
She raised her head, looked him in the eyes with such a fire in hers
that his gaze fell before it, and in a steady voice replied:
"Goodness and mercy ha'e followed me a' the days o' my life, and I'm no'
gaun back on my Lord in the hour o' my death,"--and she bowed her head
again, as though there was nothing more to be said, but her lips kept
moving silently.
Lag turned from her with a shrug of the shoulders, and approached the
younger prisoner. She turned her head to meet him with a winsome smile
that would have softened a heart less granite hard; but to him her
beauty made no appeal.
"Margaret Wilson," he said, "you have heard your sentence. Will ye
recant?"
I can still hear her reply:
"Sir, I count it a high honour to suffer for Christ's truth. He alone
is King and Head of His Church."
It was a brave answer, but it was not the answer that Lag required, so
he turned on his heel and rejoined the Sheriff and the Provost. I did
not hear what passed between them, but it was not to the advantage of
the prisoners, for the next moment I saw that the gaoler was fastening
the old woman's left wrist to the stirrup leather of one of the troopers
who had been ordered to bring his horse up nearer the Town Cross. Many
a time since I have wondered whether it was ill-luck or good fortune
that made them hit on me to do such a disservice for Margaret Wilson.
It may have been nothing more than blind chance, or it may have been the
act of Providence--I am no theologian, and have never been able to
settle these fine points--but, at a word from Lag, her gaoler brought
the girl over beside me, and shackled her wrist to my stirrup leather.
I dared not look at her face, but I saw her hand, shapely and brown,
close round the stirrup leather as though she were in pain when the
gaoler tightened the thong.
"Curse you," I growled, "there's no need to cut her hand off. She'll
not escape," and I would fain have hit the brute over the head with the
butt of my musket. He slackened the thong a trifle, and as he slouched
off I was conscious that my prisoner looked up at me as though to thank
me: but I dared not meet her eyes, and she spoke no word.
There was a rattle of drums, and we wheeled into our appointed places,
and began our woeful journey to the sea. Heading our procession walked
two halberdiers, their weapons glistening above their heads. Followed
them the Sheriff and the Provost: and after these Winram and the
troopers in two lines, between which walked the prisoners. Lag rode
behind on his great black horse. It was a brave sight for the old town
of Wigtown--but a sight of dule.
Down the street we went, but this time there were no glances of
admiration cast upon us: nothing but silent looks of awe, touched with
pity. Ahead I saw anxious mothers shepherding their children into the
shelter of their doors, and when we came near them I could see that some
of the children and many of the women were weeping. I dared not look
Margaret Wilson in the face, but I let my eyes wander to her hair, brown
and lustrous in the sunshine. My hand on the reins was moist, my lips
were dry, and I cursed myself that ever I had thrown in my lot with such
a horde of murderers. Agnew's words about conscience kept ringing in my
ears, and I felt them sear my brain. Conscience indeed! What kind of
conscience had I, that I could take part in such a devilish ploy? If I
had had the courage of a rabbit I would have swung the girl up before
me, set spurs to my horse, broken from the line and raced for life. But
I was a coward. I had no heart for such high adventure, and many a time
since, as I have lain in the dark before the cock-crowing, I have been
tortured by remorse for the brave good thing I was too big a craven to
attempt.
The procession wound slowly on, then wheeled to the left and descended
to the river bank. I believe the Blednoch has altered its course since
that day. I have never had the heart to revisit the scene, but men tell
me so. Then, it flowed into the sea over a long stretch of brown sand
just below the town. It was neither broad, nor yet very deep: but when
the tide of Solway was at its full it flooded all the sand banks, and
filled the river-mouth so that the river water was dammed back, and it
became a broad stream.
Far out on the sand I saw a stake planted: and another some thirty paces
nearer shore. They led the old woman, weary with her walk, to the
farther stake, and tying her to it left her there. Down the channel one
could see the tide coming in--its brown and foam-sprinkled front raised
above the underlying water. Cruel it looked, like some questing wild
beast raising its head to spy out its prey. A halberdier came and
severed the thong that fastened Margaret Wilson to my stirrup leather,
and led her away. My eyes followed her, and as she passed my horse's
head she looked at me over her shoulder and our eyes met. I shall see
those eyes until the Day of Judgment: blue as the speedwell--blue, and
unafraid.
They led her to the nearer stake, and bound her there. There was a kind
of mercy in their cruelty, for they thought that if the younger woman
should witness the death of the elder one she might be persuaded to
recant before she herself was engulfed. Quickly, as is its wont, the
Solway tide rushed over the sand. Before Margaret Wilson was fastened
to the stake, the water was knee-deep where Margaret Lauchlison stood:
and soon it was at the maiden's feet. As the first wave touched her
there was a murmur like a groan from some of the town folk who had
followed us and stood behind us in little knots upon the river bank.
The tide flowed on, mounting higher and higher, until old Margaret
Lauchlison stood waist deep in a swirl of tawny water. She was too far
out for us to hear her if she spoke, but we could see that she had
raised her head and was looking fearlessly over the water. And then the
younger woman did a strange thing. Out of the fold of her gown over her
bosom she drew a little book, opened it and read aloud. A hush fell
upon us: and our horses, soothed by the music of her voice, stopped
their head-tossing and were still. She read so clearly that all of us
could hear, and there was a proud note in her voice as she ended: "For I
am persuaded that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor
principalities, nor powers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor
height, nor depth, nor any other creature, shall be able to separate us
from the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus our Lord." Then she
kissed the open page, and returned her testament to her bosom, and in a
moment burst into song:
"My sins and faults of youth
Do Thou, O Lord, forget!
After Thy mercy think on me,
And for Thy goodness great."
She sang like a bird, her clear notes soaring up to the blue vault of
heaven, out of the depths of a heart untouched by fear. I heard Agnew,
who was ranged next me, mutter "This is devil's work," but my throat was
too parched for speech. Would she never cease? On and on went that
pure young voice, singing verse after verse till the psalm was finished.
When she had ended the tide was well about her waist, and had already
taken Margaret Lauchlison by the throat.
"What see ye yonder, Marget Wilson?" shouted Lag, pointing with his
sword to the farther stake.
She looked for a moment, and answered: "I see Christ wrestling there."
Then there was a great silence, and looking out to sea we saw a huge
wave sweep white-crested over the head of the older woman, who bent to
meet it, and was no more seen. The law had taken its course with her.
There was a murmur of angry voices behind us, but a stern look from Lag
silenced the timorous crowd. Setting spurs to his horse he plunged into
the water, and drew up beside the nearer stake. He severed the rope that
bound the girl, whereat a cheer rose from the townsfolk who imagined
that the law had relented and that its majesty was satisfied with the
death of one victim. He turned his horse and dragged the girl ashore.
As they reached the bank, he flung her from him and demanded:
"Will ye take the oath? Will ye say 'God Save the King?'"
"God save him an He will," she said. "I wish the salvation of all men,
and the damnation of none."
Now to my thinking that was an answer sufficient, and for such the town
folk took it, for some of them cried: "She's said it! She's said it!
She's saved!"
Lag turned on them like a tiger: "Curse ye," he shouted, "for a pack o'
bletherin' auld wives! The hizzy winna' recant. Back intil the sea wi'
her," and gripping her by the arm he dragged her back, and with his own
hands fastened her again to the stake. Her head fell forward so that
for an instant her face lay upon the waters, then she raised it proudly
again. But a halberdier, with no pity in his foul heart, reached out
his long halberd, and placing the blade of it upon her neck pushed her
face down into the sea.
"Tak' anither sup, hinny," he said, and leered at the townsfolk: but
they cried shame upon him and Lag bade him desist.
On came the waters, wave after wave, mounting steadily till they reached
her heart: then they swept over the curve of her bosom and mounted
higher and higher till they touched her neck. She was silent
now--silent, but unafraid. She turned her face to the bank, and, O
wonder, she smiled, and in her eyes there was a mystic light as though
she had seen the Invisible. The cruel waves came on, climbing up the
column of her throat until, as though to show her a mercy which man
denied her, the sea swirled over her and her face fell forward beneath
the waves. Her brown hair floated on the water like a piece of beautiful
sea-wrack, and the broken foam clung to it like pearls. Justice--God
forgive the word--justice had been done: and two women, malignant and
dangerous to the realm because they claimed the right to worship their
Maker according to the dictates of their conscience, had been lawfully
done to death.
There was a rattle of drums, and we fell into rank again. I looked
across the water. Far off I saw a gull flash like a streak of silver
into the waves, and near at hand, afloat upon the water, a wisp of brown
seaweed--or was it a lassie's hair?
*CHAPTER IV*
*THE TAVERN BRAWL*
It was high noon as we cluttered up the hill, back to our camping-place.
Our day's work was done, but it was not till evening that we were free
to go about our own affairs. Try as I might I could not blot out the
memory of the doings of the morning, and when night fell I took my way
with half a dozen companions to the inn that stood not far from the
Tolbooth in the hope that there I might find some relief from the
scourge of my thoughts. In the sanded kitchen, round a glowing
fire--for though it was May the nights were still chilly--we found many
of the townsfolk already gathered. Some were passing a patient hour
with the dambrod, seeking inspiration for crafty moves of the black or
white men in tankards of the tavern-keeper's ale. Others were gathered
round the fire smoking, each with a flagon of liquor at his elbow.
I sat down at a little table with Trooper Agnew, and called for
something to drink. I was in no mood for amusement, and spurned Agnew's
suggestion that we should play draughts. The inn-keeper placed a
tobacco jar between us.
"Ye'll try a smoke?" he queried. "It's guid tobacco: a' the better,
though I hardly daur mention it, that it paid nae duty."
Nothing loth, Agnew and I filled our pipes, and the inn-keeper picking
up a piece of red peat with the tongs held it to our pipes till they
were aglow. It was, as mine host had said, good tobacco, and under its
soothing influence and the brightening effect of his ale my gloom began
to disappear. From time to time other troopers dropped in, and they
were followed by sundry of the townsfolk with whom, in spite of the
events of the morning, we red-coat men were on good terms. Close by the
fire sat one of the halberdiers--the man who had pushed the head of the
drowning girl under the water with his halberd. The ale had loosened his
tongue.
"I dinna ken," he said, "but the thing lies here: if thae stiff-necked
Covenanters winna' tak' the oath to the King, it is the end o' a' proper
order in the country." He spat a hissing expectoration upon the glowing
peat. "I'm a man o' order masel'. I expect fowk to obey me in virtue
o' ma office just as I'm ready to obey them as God and the King ha'e set
abune me."
He spoke loudly as though challenging his audience; but no one made
answer.
The silence was broken by the clatter of draughts as two players ended a
game and set about replacing the men for another joust. The halberdier
took a long draught from his mug.
"Tak' anither sup, hinny," he said, reminiscently, as he set the tankard
down. Then drawing the back of his hand across his mouth he continued:
"It was a fine bit work we did this mornin', lads. I rarely ta'en pairt
in a better job. There's naethin' like making an example o' malignants,
and I'm thinkin' it will be lang before ony mair o' the women o' this
countryside are misguided enough to throw in their lot wi' the
hill-preachers. She was a thrawn auld besom was Marget Lauchlison. I
have kent her mony a year--aye psalm-singing and gabbling texts. Will ye
believe it, she's even flung texts at me. Me! the toon's halberdier!
'The wicked shall fall by his own wickedness,' said she: 'The wicked
shall be turned into Hell'; 'The dwelling place of the wicked shall come
to naught.' Oh, she had a nesty tongue. But noo she's cleppin' wi' the
partans, thank God. Here, Mac, fill me anither jorum. It tak's a lot o'
yill tae wash the taste o' the auld besom's texts off ma tongue."
The inn-keeper placed a full tankard beside him.
"Tak' anither sup, hinny," he said with a laugh, and drank deeply. "Lag
was by-ordnar' the day; I thocht he was gaun to let the bit lassock off
when he dragged her oot o' the water. But nae sic thing, thank God! Ma
certes, he's a through-gaun chiel, Lag. The women-fowk thocht she had
ta'en the aith when she said 'God save him, an He will.' But Lag kent
fine what was in her black heart. She wanted only to save her life.
She was far better drooned--the young rebel! Naethin' like makin' an
example o' them when they are young. Certes, I settled her. Tak'
anither sup, hinny."
A peal of laughter rang through the kitchen. It was more than I could
stand; for notwithstanding all I had seen and done as a trooper some
spark of chivalry still glowed in my heart, and I was under the spell of
her blue and dauntless eyes. I sprang to my feet.
"Curse you for a black-hearted ruffian!" I shouted. "None but a damned
cur would make sport of two dead women."
A silence absolute and cold fell upon the gathering at my first words,
and as I stood there I felt it oppress me.
"Whit's this, whit's this," cried the halberdier. "A trooper turned
Covenanter! I'm thinkin' Lag and Winram will ha'e something to say to
this, an they hear o't."
"Be silent!" I thundered. "I am no Covenanter, but it would be good for
Scotland if there were more such women as we drowned this morning, and
fewer men with such foul hearts as yours."
It was an ill-judged place and time for such a speech, but I was on fire
with anger. The halberdier rose to his feet, flung the contents of his
tankard in my face, roared with laughter, and cried, "Tak' anither sup,
hinny."
This was beyond endurance. With one leap I was upon him and hurled him
to the ground. He fell with a crash; his head struck the flagged floor
with a heavy thud, and he lay still. I had fallen with him, and as I
rose I received a blow which flung me down again. In an instant, as
though a match had been set to a keg of powder, the tavern was in an
uproar. What but a moment before had been a personal conflict between
myself and the halberdier had waxed into a general melee.
Some joined battle on my side, others were against me, and townsmen and
troopers laid about them wildly with fists, beer-pots, and any other
weapons to which they could lay their hands. The clean sanded floor
became a mire of blood and tumbled ale, in which wallowed a tangle of
cursing, fighting men.
Just when the fray was at its hottest the door of the kitchen was thrown
open, and the sergeant of our troop stood in its shadow.
"What's this?" he shouted, and, as though by magic, the combat ceased.
None of us spoke, but the inn-keeper, finding speech at last, said: "A
maist unseemly row, sergeant, begun by ane o' your ain men, wha wi' oot
provocation felled ma frien' the halberdier wha lies yonder a'maist
deid."
The sergeant strode to the body of the halberdier and dropped on his
knees beside it.
"What lousy deevil has done this?" he cried.
"The Englishman," said the inn-keeper; "Nae Scotsman would ha'e felled
sic a decent man unprovoked."
I looked at the halberdier, and saw with relief that he was beginning to
recover from his stupor.
"Fetch us a gill o' your best, Mac," said the sergeant. "We'll see if a
wee drap o' Blednoch will no' bring the puir fellow roon'. And you,
Agnew, and MacTaggart, arrest Trooper Bryden. Lag will ha'e somethin'
to say aboot this."
Agnew and MacTaggart laid each a hand on my shoulder, but my gorge was
up and I resented being made a prisoner. I looked towards the door;
there were four or five troopers in a knot beside it and escape in that
direction was impossible; but behind me there was a stair. One sudden
wrench and I tore myself from my captors and raced wildly up it. At the
top, a door stood open. I flung it to in the faces of Agnew and
MacTaggart, who were racing up behind me, and shot the bolt. Frail
though it was, this barrier would give me a moment's respite. I found
myself in an attic room, and to my joy saw, in the light of the moon, a
window set in the slope of the roof. Rapidly I forced it open, and
threw myself up and out upon the thatched roof. In a moment I was at
its edge, and dropped into the garden at the back of the inn. As I
dropped I heard the door at the stair-head crash and I knew that my
pursuers would soon be upon me. Crouching low I dashed to the bottom of
the garden, broke my way through the prickly hedge and flew hot-foot
down the hill.
In the fitful light I saw the gleam of the river, and knew that my
escape was barred in that direction. I saw that I must either run along
the brae-face towards the sea, or inland up-river to the hills. As I
ran I came to a quick decision and chose the latter course. I glanced
over my shoulder, and, though I could see by the lights in their windows
the houses in the main street of the town, I could not distinguish any
pursuers. Behind me I heard confused shoutings, and the loud voice of
the sergeant giving orders. Breathless, I plunged into a thick growth of
bracken on the hill-side and lay still. I knew that this could afford
me only a temporary refuge, but it served to let me regain breath, and
as I lay there I heard the sergeant cry: "Get lanterns and quarter the
brae-side. He canna ford the water."
I lay in my hiding-place until the lights of the lanterns began to
appear at the top of the brae, then I rose stealthily and, bent double,
hurried to the edge of the bed of brackens. Here, I knew, I was
sufficiently distant from my nearest pursuer to be outside his vision,
while his twinkling light gave me the clue to his whereabouts. Then I
turned and tore along the hillside away from the town. When I had
covered what I thought was the better part of a mile, I lay down under
the cover of a granite boulder. Far behind me I could see the wandering
lights, and I knew that for the moment I had outdistanced my pursuers;
and then to my great belief I heard the notes of the Last Post rise and
fall upon the night air. I smiled as I saw the scattered lights stop,
then begin to move compactly up the hill. At least half an hour, I
judged, must elapse before the pursuit could be renewed, and I felt with
any luck that interval ought to suffice for my escape. It was too
dark--and I was not sufficiently acquainted with the country-side--to
take my bearings, but I knew that the river Cree flowed past the town of
Newton-Stewart, and behind the town were the hills which had afforded
many a Covenanter a safe hiding-place from pursuit. Caution prevented me
from making for the high road, though the speed of my progress might
there be greater. Caution, too, forbade my keeping to the brink of the
river. My greatest safety seemed to lie along the tract between them,
so I set boldly out.
*CHAPTER V*
*IN THE DARK OF THE NIGHT*
I had not gone far when my ears caught a familiar sound--the beat of
hoofs on the high road. I paused to listen, and concluded that two
horsemen were making for Newton-Stewart. I guessed the message they
carried, and I knew that not only was I likely to have pursuers on my
heels, but that, unless I walked warily, I was in danger of running into
a cordon of troopers who would be detailed from Newton-Stewart to search
for me. I was a deserter, to whom Lag would give as little quarter as
to a Covenanter. The conviction that there was a price on my head made
me suddenly conscious of the sweetness of life, and drove me to sudden
thought.
By some means or other, before I concealed myself in the fastnesses of
the hills, I must obtain a store of food. The hiding Covenanter, I
remembered, was fed by his friends. I was friendless; and unless I
could manage to lay up some store of food before I forsook the inhabited
valleys nothing but death awaited me among the hills. As I thought of
this, an inspiration of courage came to me. Though it would be
foolishness to walk along the high road I might with advantage make
better speed and possibly find a means of obtaining food if I walked
just beyond the hedge which bordered it. Sooner or later I should in
this way come to a roadside inn. With this thought encouraging me, I
plodded steadily on. The highway was deserted, and no sound was to be
heard but the muffled beat of my own steps upon the turf. If pursuers
were following me from Wigtown, I had left them far behind. It might be
that Lag, thinking shrewdly, had decided that no good purpose was to be
served by continuing the pursuit that night, for he knew that a man
wandering at large in the uniform of a trooper would have little
opportunity of escaping. So, possibly, he had contented himself by
sending the horsemen to Newton-Stewart to apprise the garrison there.
Perhaps at this very moment he was chuckling over his cups as he thought
how he would lay me by the heels on the morrow. In fancy I could see
the furrows on his brow gather in a knot as he brooded over my
punishment.
Then, borne on the still night air, I heard the click and clatter of
uncertain footsteps coming towards me. I crouched behind the hedge and
peered anxiously along the road: then my ears caught the sound of a
song. The wayfarer was in a jovial mood, and I judged, from the
uncertainty of his language, that he was half-drunk. I waited to make
sure that the man was alone, then I stole through the hedge and walked
boldly to meet him.
"It is a fine night," I said, as I came abreast of him. He stopped in
the middle of a stave and looked me up and down.
"Aye, it's a fine nicht," he replied. "Nane the waur for a drap o'
drink. Here! Tak' a dram, an pledge the King's health." He searched
his pockets and after some difficulty withdrew a half-empty bottle from
the inside of his coat and offered it to me. "The King, God bless him,"
I said, as I put it to my lips.
"It's a peety ye're no' traivellin' my road," said the wayfarer. "A
braw young callant like you wi' the King's uniform on his back would
mak' a graun convoy for an auld man alang this lanely road."
"No," I answered, as I handed him his bottle, "My way lies in another
direction."
"Ye'll no' happen to be ane o' Lag's men, are ye?" He did not await my
reply, but continued: "He's a bonnie deevil, Lag! He kens the richt
medicine for Covenanters: but I ken the richt medicine for Jock Tamson,"
and putting the bottle to his lips he drank deep and long. Then he
staggered to the side of the road and sat down, and holding the bottle
towards me said: "Sit doon and gi'es yer crack."
Now I had no wish to be delayed by this half-drunken countryman; but I
thought that he might be of service to me, so I seated myself and
pretended once again to take a deep draught from his bottle. He snatched
it from my lips.
"Haud on," he said, "ye've got a maist uncanny drouth, and that bottle
maun last me till Setterday."
"Unless you leave it alone," I said, "it will be empty ere you reach
home."
"Weel, what if it is?" he hiccoughed. "The Lord made guid drink and I'm
no' the man to spurn the mercies o' the Creator."
"Well," I said, "your drink is good, and I'm as dry as ashes. Can you
tell me where I can get a bottle."
"Oh, weel I can, an' if ye're minded to gang and see Luckie Macmillan,
I'll gi'e ye a convoy. The guid woman'll be bedded sine, but she'll
rise tae see to ony frien' o' Jock Tamson's. Come on, lad," and he
raised himself unsteadily to his feet and, taking me by the arm, began
to retrace his steps in the direction from which he came.
We followed the high road for perhaps a mile, and as we went he rambled
on in good-natured but somewhat incoherent talk, stopping every now and
then while he laid hold of my arm and tapped my chest with the fingers
of his free hand to emphasise some empty confidence. He had imparted to
me, as a great secret, some froth of gossip, when he exclaimed:
"Weel: here we are at Luckie's loanin' and the guid-wife is no' in her
bed yet; I can see a licht in the window."
We turned from the high road and went down the lane, at the bottom of
which I could discern the dark outline of a cottage. As we drew near I
was startled by the sound of a restless horse pawing the ground and,
quick in its wake, the jangle of a bridle chain. A few more steps and I
saw two horses tethered to the gatepost, and their harness was that of
the dragoons. I was walking into the lion's den!
"So Luckie's got company, guid woman," hiccoughed my companion. "I hope
it's no' the gaugers."
I seized on the suggestion in hot haste:
"Wheesht, man," I hissed, "they are gaugers sure enough, and if you are
caught here with a bottle of Luckie's best, you'll be up before Provost
Coltran at the next Session in Wigtown."
"Guid help us! an' me a God-fearin' man. Let's rin for't."
As he spoke, the door of the cottage was thrown open and in the light
from it I saw one of the troopers. Placing a firm hand over my
companion's mouth I dragged him into the shadow of the hedge, and
pushing him before me wormed my way through to its other side.
Here we lay, still and silent, while I, with ears alert, heard the
troopers vault into their saddles and with a cheery "Good night,
Luckie," clatter up the lane to the high road to continue their way to
Newton-Stewart.
We lay hidden till the noise of their going died in the distance, then
we pushed our way back through the hedge and made for the cottage. Jock
beat an unsteady tattoo on the door.
"Wha's knockin' at this time o' nicht?" asked a woman's voice from
behind the door.
"Jock Tamson, Luckie, wi' a frien'."
"Jock Tomson!--he's awa' hame to his bed an 'oor sin'."
"Na, Luckie, it's me richt eneuch, and I've brocht a frien', a braw
laddie in the King's uniform, to see ye."
The King's uniform seemed to act as a charm, for the door was at once
thrown open and we entered.
With a fugitive's caution I lingered to see that the old woman closed
the door and barred it. Then, following the uncertain light of the
tallow candle which she carried, we made our way along the sanded floor
of the passage and passed through a low door into a wide kitchen. Peat
embers still glowed on the hearth, and when Luckie had lit two more
candles which stood in bottles on a long deal table I was able to make
some note of my surroundings. Our hostess was a woman far gone in
years. Her face was expressionless, as though set in a mould, but from
beneath the shadow of her heavy eyebrows gleamed a pair of piercing eyes
that age had not dimmed. She moved slowly with shuffling gait,
half-bowed as though pursuing something elusive which she could not
catch. I noticed, too, for danger had quickened my vision, that her
right hand and arm were never still.
She stooped over the hearth and casting fresh peats upon it said: "And
what's yer pleesure, gentlemen?"
"A bottle o' Blednoch, Luckie, a wheen soda scones and a whang o'
cheese; and dinna forget the butter--we're fair famished," answered
Jock, his words jostling each other. Our hostess brought a small table
and set it before us, and we sat down. Very speedily, for one so old,
Luckie brought our refreshment, and Thomson, seizing the black bottle,
poured himself out a stiff glass, which he drank at a gulp. I helped
myself to a moderate dram and set the bottle on the table between us.
Thomson seized it at once and replenished his glass, and then said as he
passed the bottle to the old woman:
"Will ye no tak' a drap, Luckie, for the guid o' the hoose?"
She shuffled to the dresser and came back with a glass which she filled.
"A toast," said Thomson. "The King, God bless him," and we stood up,
and drank. The potent spirit burned my mouth like liquid fire, but my
companions seemed to relish it as they drank deeply. I had no desire to
dull my wits with strong drink, so, as I helped myself to a scone and a
piece of cheese, I asked Luckie if she could let me have a little water.
"Watter!" cried Thomson. "Whit the deevil d'ye want wi' watter? Surely
you're no' gaun to rot your inside wi' sic' feckless trash."
"No," I said, "I just want to let down the whisky."
"Whit!" he shouted, "spile guid Blednoch wi' pump watter!--it's a
desecration, a fair abomination in the sicht o' the Lord. I thought
frae yer brogue ye were an Englishman. This proves it; nae stammick for
guid drink; nae heid for theology. Puir deevil!"--and he shook his head
pityingly.
I laughed as I watched my insatiable companion once more empty his glass
and refill it.
"An' whit are ye daein' on the road sae late the nicht, young man?" said
Luckie, suddenly. "Lag's men are usually bedded long afore noo. Are ye
after the deserter tae, like the twa dragoons that were here a bittock
syne?"
I had made up my mind that my flight and identity would best be
concealed by an appearance of ingenuous candour, so I replied without
hesitation:
"Yes, I am. He has not been here to-night, has he?"
"Certes, no," exclaimed the old woman. "This is a law-abiding hoose and
I wad shelter neither Covenanter nor renegade King's man."
My words seemed to disarm her of any suspicion she might have had about
me, and she busied herself stirring the peat fire.
Its warmth and the whisky which he had consumed were making Jock drowsy.
He had not touched any of the food, and his chin had begun to sink on
his chest. Soon he slipped from his seat and lay huddled, a snoring
mass, on the flagged floor. Luckie made as though to lift him, but I
forbade her.
"Let him be: he'll only be quarrelsome if you wake him, and he's quite
safe on the floor."
"That's as may be," said Luckie, "but ye're no' gaun to stop a' nicht,
or ye'll never catch the deserter, and ye canna leave Jock Tamson to
sleep in my kitchen. I'm a dacint widda' woman, and nae scandal has
ever soiled my name; and I'll no' hae it said that ony man ever sleepit
in my hoose, and me by my lane, since I buried my ain man thirty years
sin'."
"That's all right," I replied, "have no fear. If Jock is not awake when
I go, I'll carry him out and put him in the ditch by the roadside."
The old woman laughed quietly. "Fegs, that's no' bad; he'll get the
fricht o' his life when he waukens up in the cauld o' the mornin' and
sees the stars abune him instead o' the bauks o' my kitchen."
I had been doing justice to the good fare of the house, but a look at
the "wag-at-the-wa'" warned me that I must delay no longer. But there
was something I must discover. I took my pipe from my pocket and as I
filled it said: "I should think, Luckie, that you are well acquainted
with this countryside."
"Naebody better," she replied. "I was born in Blednoch and I've spent
a' my days between there and Penninghame Kirk. No' that I've bothered
the kirk muckle," she added.
"Then," I said, "suppose a deserter was minded to make for the hills on
the other side o' the Cree, where think you he would try to cross the
river?"
"If he wisna a fule," she said, "he'd ford it juist ayont the Carse o'
Bar. Aince he's ower it's a straicht road to the heichts o' Millfore."
"And where may the Carse o' Bar be?" I asked. "For unless I hurry, my
man may be over the water before I can reach it."
"It's no' far," she said, "and ye canna miss it. Ony fule could see it
in the dark."
"Well, I must be off," I said. "Grier o' Lag is no easy taskmaster and
I must lay this man by the heels. I'll haste me and lie in wait by the
Carse of Bar, and if my luck's in, I may catch him there. What do I owe
you, and may I have some of your good scones and a bit of cheese to keep
me going?"
She brought me a great plateful of scones, which I stowed about my
person with considerable satisfaction; then I paid her what she asked,
and, picking up Jock, bore him towards the door. He made no resistance,
and his head fell limply over my arm as though he were a person dead,
though the noise of his breathing was evidence sufficient that he was
only very drunk. Luckie opened the door and stood by it with a candle
in her hand. I carried Jock down the lane and deposited him underneath
the hedge. Then I went back to the cottage to bid my hostess good
night.
"If ye come through to the back door," she said. "I'll pit ye on the
straicht road for the Carse o' Bar."
I followed her through the kitchen, and she opened a door at the rear of
the house and stood in its shadow to let me pass.
"Gang richt doon the hill," she said, "and keep yon whin bush on yer
left haun; syne ye'll come to a bed o' bracken,--keep that on yer richt
and haud straicht on. By an' by ye'll strike the water edge. Haud up it
till ye come to a bend, and that's the place whaur the deserter will
maist likely try to cross it. Ony fule can ford the Cree; it tak's a
wise body to ken whaur. Guid nicht to ye."
"Good night," I answered, as I set out, turning for a moment for a last
look at the bent old woman as she stood in the dancing shadows thrown by
the candle held in her shaking hand.
*CHAPTER VI*
*IN THE LAP OF THE HILLS*
As I set out I saw that the moon was rapidly sinking. Much time had been
lost, and I must needs make haste. I hurried past the whin bush, and
by-and-by came to the bed of brackens. Just as I reached it the moon
sank, but there was still enough light to let me see dimly things near
at hand. I judged that the river must lie about a mile away, and to
walk that distance over unknown ground in the dark tests a man in a
hundred ways. I did not know at what moment some lurking figure might
spring upon me from the shelter of the brackens, and, clapping a hand on
my shoulder, arrest me in the King's name. I had no weapon of defence
save a stout heart and a pair of iron fists. Even a brave man, in
flight, is apt to read into every rustle of a leaf or into every one of
the natural sounds that come from the sleeping earth an eerie
significance, and more than once I halted and crouched down to listen
closely to some sound, which proved to be of no moment.
Conscience is a stern judge who speaks most clearly in the silences of
the night when a man is alone, and as I groped my way onward the
relentless pursuing voice spoke in my ear like some sibilant and
clinging fury of which I could not rid myself. The avenger of blood was
on my heels: some ghostly warlock, some awesome fiend sent from the pit
to take me thither! The horror of the deed in which I had taken part in
the morning gripped me by the heart. I stumbled on distraught, and as I
went I remembered how once I had heard among the hills a shrill cry as
of a child in pain, and looking to see whence the cry had come I saw
dragging itself wearily along the hillside, with ears dropped back and
hind-limbs paralysed with fear, a young rabbit, and as I looked I saw
behind it a weasel trotting briskly, with nose up and gleaming eyes, in
the track of its victim. I knew enough of wood-craft to realise that
the chase had lasted long and that from the time the weasel began the
pursuit until the moment when I saw them, the issue had been certain;
and I knew that the rabbit knew. Such tricks of fancy does memory play
upon a man in sore straits. I saw, again, the end of the chase--the
flurry of fur as the weasel gripped the rabbit by the throat; I heard
its dying cry as the teeth of its pursuer closed in the veins of its
neck; and there in the dark, I was seized with sudden nausea. I drew a
long breath and tried to cry aloud, but my tongue clave to the roof of
my mouth; fear had robbed me of speech. Then a sudden access of
strength came to me and I began to run. Was it only the fevered
imaginings of a disordered brain, or was it fact, that to my racing feet
the racing feet of some pursuer echoed and echoed again? Suddenly my
foot struck a boulder. I was thrown headlong and lay bruised and
breathless on the ground--and as I lay the sound of footsteps that had
seemed so real to me was no more heard.
I was bruised by my fall and my limbs were still shaking when I
struggled up, but I hurried on again, and by and by the tinkle of the
river as it rippled over its bed fell on my ear like delicate,
companionable music. When I reached its edge I sat down for a moment
and peered into the darkness towards the other side; but gaze as I might
I could not see across it. It looked dark and cold and uncertain, and
though I was a swimmer I had no desire to find myself flung suddenly out
of my depth. So, before I took off my shoes and stockings, I cut a long
wand from a willow near, and with this in my hand I began warily to
adventure the passage. I stood ankle deep in the water and felt for my
next step with my slender staff. It gave me no support, but it let me
know with each step the depth that lay before me. By-and-by I reached
the other side, and painfully--because of my naked feet--I traversed it
until I came to the green sward beyond. Here I sat down in the shelter
of a clump of bushes and put on my shoes and stockings. The cold water
had braced me, and I was my own man again.
As I set out once more I calculated that the sun would rise in three
hours' time, and I knew that an hour after sunrise it would be dangerous
for me to continue my flight in the open. For, though the country-side
was but thinly peopled, some shepherd on the hills or some woman from
her cottage door might espy a strange figure trespassing upon their
native solitude. To be seen might prove my undoing, so I hurried on
while the darkness was still upon the earth.
When day broke I was up among the hills. Now I began to walk
circumspectly, scanning the near and distant country before venturing
across any open space; and when the sun had been up for an hour, and the
last silver beads of dew were beginning to dry on the tips of the
heather, I set about finding a resting-place. It was an easy task, for
the heather and bracken grew luxuriantly. I crawled into the middle of
a clump of bracken, and drawing the leafy stems over me lay snugly hid.
I was foot-sore and hungry, but I helped myself to Luckie's good
provender, and almost as soon as I had finished my meal I was fast
asleep.
When I awoke I was, for a moment, at a loss to understand my
surroundings. Then I remembered my flight, and all my senses were alive
again. I judged from the position of the sun that it must be late
afternoon. Caution made me wary, and I did not stir from my lair, for I
knew that questing troopers might already be on the adjacent hill-sides
looking for me, and their keen eyes would be quick to discern any
unusual movement in the heart of a bed of bracken, so I lay still and
waited. Then I dozed off again, and when I awoke once more, the stars
were beginning to appear.
Secure beneath the defence of the dark, I quitted my resting-place. So
far, fortune had smiled upon me; I had baffled my pursuers, and during
the hours of the night the chase would be suspended. The thought lent
speed to my feet and flooded my heart with hope. Ere the break of morn
I should have covered many a mile. So I pressed on resolutely, and when
the moon rose I had already advanced far on my way.
As I went I began to consider my future. My aim was to reach England.
Once across the border I should be safe from pursuit: but in reaching
that distant goal I must avoid the haunts of men, and until such time as
I could rid myself of my trooper's uniform and find another garb, my
journey would be surrounded with countless difficulties. I estimated
that with care my store of food would last three days. After that the
problem of procuring supplies would be as difficult as it would be
urgent. I dared not venture near any cottage: I dared not enter any
village or town, and the more I thought of my future the blacker it
became. Defiantly I choked down my fears and resolved that I should
live for the moment only. There was more of boldness than wisdom in the
decision, and when I had come to it I trudged on blithely with no
thought except to cover as many miles as possible before the day should
break.
When that hour came I found myself standing by the side of a lone grey
loch laid in the lap of the hills. On each side the great sheet of water
was surrounded by a heather-clad ridge, from whose crest some ancient
cataclysm had torn huge boulders which lay strewn here and there on the
slopes that led down to the water edge. Remote from the haunts of man,
it seemed to my tired eyes a place of enchanting beauty; and I stood
there as though a spell were upon me and watched the sun rise, diffusing
as it came a myriad fairy tints which transformed the granite slabs to
silver, and lighted up the mist-clad hill-side with colours of pearl and
purple and gold.
I watched a dove-grey cloud roll gently from the face of the loch and,
driven by some vagrant wind, wander ghost-like over the hill-side. The
moor-fowl were beginning to wake and I heard the cry of the cock-grouse
challenge the morn. Pushing my way through the dew-laden beds of
heather, I ascended to the crest of the slope which ran up from the
loch, and looked across the country. Before me rolled a panorama of
moor and hill, while in the far distance the morning sky bent down to
touch the earth. There was no human habitation in sight; no feather of
peat-smoke ascending into the air from a shepherd's cot; no sheep or
cattle or living thing; but the silence was broken by the wail of the
whaups, which, in that immensity of space, seemed charged with woe. I
descended from the hill-top and passed round the end of the loch to
reconnoitre from the ridge on the other side. My eyes were met by a
like expanse of moor and hills. Here, surely, I thought, is solitude
and safety. Here might any fugitive conceal himself till the fever of
the hue and cry should abate. For a time at least I should make this
peaceful mountain fastness my home.
When I came down from the ridge I walked along the edge of the loch till
I came upon a little stream which broke merrily away from the loch-side
and rippled with tinkling chatter under the heather and across the
moorland till the brown ribbon of its course was lost in the distance.
Half-dreaming I walked along its bank. Suddenly in a little pool I saw
a trout dart to the cover of a stone. With the zest of boyhood, but the
wariness of maturer years, I groped with cautious fingers beneath the
stone and in a few seconds felt the slight movements of the little fish
as my hands closed slowly upon it. In a flash it was out on the
bank--yards away, and soon other four lay beside it. I had found an
unexpected means of replenishing my larder. With flint and steel and
tinder I speedily lit a handful of dry grass placed under the shelter of
a boulder, and adding some broken stems of old heather and bits of
withered bracken I soon made a pleasant fire over which I cooked my
trout on a flat stone. I have eaten few breakfasts so grateful since.
The meal over, I took care to extinguish the fire. Then, in better cheer
than I had yet been since the moment of my desertion, looking about for
a resting-place I found a great granite boulder projecting from the
hill-side and underneath its free edge a space where a man might lie
comfortably and well hidden by the tall bracken which over-arched the
opening. Laying a thick bed of heather beneath the rock, I crawled in,
drawing back the brackens to their natural positions over a hiding-place
wonderfully snug and safe.
I judged from the position of the sun that it was near six of the
morning when I crawled into my bed, and soon I was fast asleep. It was
high noon when I awoke and peered cautiously through the fronds of the
bracken on a solitude as absolute as it was in the early hours of the
morning. I felt sorely tempted to venture out for a little while; but
discretion counselled caution, and I lay down once more and was soon
fast asleep. When I awoke again I saw that the sun was setting.
I rose and stretched my stiffened limbs. The loch lay in the twilight
smooth as a sheet of polished glass. I went down to its edge and,
undressing, plunged into its waters, still warm from the rays of the
summer sun. Greatly refreshed, I swam ashore, dressed, and ate some food
from my rapidly diminishing store. I had found in the burn-trout an
unexpected addition to my larder, but it was evident that very soon I
should be in sore straits.
Suddenly, I heard a shrill sound cleave the air. Quickly I crawled under
the shelter of the nearest rock and listened. The sound was coming from
the heather slopes on the other side of the loch and I soon became aware
that it was from a flute played by a musician of skill. I was amazed
and awed. The gathering darkness, the loneliness of the hills, the
stillness of the loch, gave to the music a weird and haunting beauty. I
could catch no glimpse of the player, but now I knew that I was not
alone in this mountain solitude. The music died away only to come again
with fresh vigour as the player piped a jigging tune. It changed once
more, and out of the darkness and distance floated an old Scots
melody--an echo of hopeless sorrow from far off years. It ceased.
I waited until the darkness was complete, and, taking a careful note of
the bearings of my hiding-place, I set out with silent footsteps to the
other side of the loch to see if I could discover, without myself being
seen, this hill-side maker of music. Slowly I rounded the end of the
loch, and stole furtively along its edge till I came to a point below
the place from which I judged the melody had come. There, crouching
low, and pausing frequently, I went up the slope. Suddenly I heard a
voice near me, and sank to the ground. No man in his senses speaks
aloud to himself! There must be two people at least on this hill-side,
and my solitude and safety were delusions! I cursed myself for a fool,
and then as the speaker raised his voice I knew that I was not listening
to men talking together, but to a man praying to his Maker--a
Covenanter--a fugitive like myself--hiding in these fastnesses.
Silently as I had come I stole away and left the moorland saint alone
with his God.
*CHAPTER VII*
*THE FLUTE-PLAYER*
The moon was breaking through a wreath of clouds when I came to the end
of the loch again, and its light guided me to my hiding-place. As I had
lain asleep all day, I was in no need of rest, so I set out along the
hill-side to stretch my limbs and explore my surroundings further. All
was silent, and the face of the loch shone in the moonlight like a
silver shield.
The unexpected happenings of the last hour filled my mind. I had been
told once and again that the Covenanters were a dour, stubborn pack of
kill-joys, with no interests outside the narrow confines of their
bigotry. A flute-playing Covenanter--and, withal, a master such as this
man had shown himself to be--was something I found it hard, to
understand. And more than once since that fatal day at Wigtown I had
thought of winsome Margaret Wilson, whose brave blue eyes were of a kind
to kindle love in a man's heart. She, the sweet maid, and this soulful
musician of the hills, made me think that after all the Covenanters must
be human beings with feelings and aspirations, loves and hopes like
other men, and were not merely lawless fanatics to be shot like wild
cats or drowned like sheep-worrying dogs.
I wondered whether this Covenanter had been hiding on the other side of
the loch long before I came; or whether he had been driven by the
troopers from some other lair a few hours before and was but a passer-by
in the night. No man, in flight, resting for a time would have been so
unwary as this flute-player. He must have been there long enough to
know that his solitude was unlikely to be disturbed by any sudden
arrival of troopers, and, if so, he must have some means of supplying
himself with food. An idea seized me. If he, like myself, was a
fugitive in hiding I might be able to eke out my diminishing store by
procuring from him some of the food which I imagined must be brought to
him by friends. But then, how could I expect that one, whose enemies
wore the same coat as I did, would grant me this favour. Even if I told
him my story, would he believe me?
However, I resolved that, when the morning broke, I would try to make
friends with this man: but--my uniform? From his hiding-place he would
doubtless observe my approach, and either conceal himself the closer or
escape me by flight. Turning the matter over in my mind, I continued my
walk along the loch-side, and suddenly, because I was not paying full
heed to the manner of my going, my feet sank under me and I was sucked
into a bog. A "bottomless" bog so common in these Scottish moors would
quickly have solved my difficulties. With no small effort I raised my
head above the ooze and slime, withdrew my right arm from the sodden
morass, out of which it came with a hideous squelch, and felt all round
for some firm tussock of grass or rushes. Luckily finding one, I pulled
upon it cautiously, and it held--then more firmly, and still it held.
Clinging to it I withdrew my left arm from the morass, and, laying hold
on another tussock, after a prolonged and exhausting effort I succeeded
in drawing myself up till I was able to rest my arms on a clump of
rushes that stood in the heart of the bog. Resting for a little to
recover myself, I at last drew myself completely out; and as I stood
with my feet planted firmly in the heart of the rushes, I saw a clump of
grass, and stepped upon it, and from it, with a quick leap, to the other
side. As I stood wet and mud-drenched, it suddenly flashed upon me that
this untoward event might turn to my advantage. The brown ooze of the
bog would effectually hide the scarlet of my coat. Even if the fugitive
on the other side of the loch should see my approach, he would not
recognise in this mud-stained wanderer an erstwhile spick-and-span
trooper of Lag's Horse.
I made my way carefully to the water edge and washed the bitter ooze
from my face and hands. Then I took off my tunic--having first
carefully taken from its pockets the remains of my store of food, now
all sodden--and laid it on a boulder to dry. Then I paced up and down
briskly, till the exercise brought a grateful warmth to my limbs.
I sat down and looked wonderingly over the broad surface of the loch. A
wind had sprung up, warm and not unkindly, which caught the surface of
the water and drove little plashing waves against the gravel edge. As I
listened to their chatter I suddenly heard footsteps close at hand.
Throwing myself flat on the ground I waited. Who was it? The
Covenanter ought to be at the other side of the loch. Was there another
refugee as well as myself on this side, or was it a pursuer who had at
last found me, and had I escaped death in the bog only to face it a few
days hence against a wall in Wigtown with a firing party before me?
*CHAPTER VIII*
*A COVENANTER'S CHARITY*
The footsteps drew nearer and stopped. I had been seen. There was a
long pause, then a voice in level, steady tones said: "Are you a kent
body in this country-side?"
I rose quickly to my feet and faced the speaker. I could see him as a
dark but indistinct figure standing some yards from me on the slope of
the brae, but I knew from the lack of austerity in his tones that he was
no trooper, and I thought that in all likelihood he would prove to be
the player of the flute.
"Need a man answer such a question?" said I. "What right have you to ask
who I am?"
"I have no right," he replied, as he drew nearer--"no title but
curiosity. Strangers here are few and far between. As for me, I am a
shepherd."
"A strange time of night," said I, "for a shepherd to look for his
sheep."
"Ay," answered the voice, "and my flock has been scattered by wolves."
"I understand," I said. "You are a minister of the Kirk, a Covenanter,
a hill-man in hiding."
He came quite close to me and said: "I'm no' denying that you speak the
truth. Who are you?"
"Like you," I replied, "I am a fugitive--a man with a price on his
head."
"A Covenanter?"
"No; a deserter from Lag's Horse."
"From Lag's Horse?" he exclaimed, repeating my words. "A deserter?"
Uncertain what to say, I waited. Then he continued:
"May I make so bold as to ask if your desertion is the fruit of
conviction of soul, or the outcome of some drunken spree?"
I have not the Scottish faculty for analysing my motives, and I hardly
knew what to say. Was I a penitent, ashamed and sorry for the evil
things in which I had played a part, or did I desert merely to escape
punishment for my part in the drunken brawl in the tavern? I had not
yet made a serious attempt to assess the matter; and here, taken at
unawares in the stillness of the night among the silent hills, I was
conscious of the near presence of God before whose bar I was arraigned
by this quiet interlocutor.
"I am wet to the skin and chilled to the bone, for only an hour ago I
foundered in a bog, but if you will walk with me," I said, "I will tell
you the story and you shall judge."
"It is not for man to judge, for he cannot read the heart aright, but if
you will tell me your story I will know as much of you as you seem
already to know of me," he said, as he took me by the arm. "Like you,"
he continued, "I am a fugitive; and if you are likely to stop for long
in this hiding-place, it were well that we should understand each
other."
As we paced up and down, I told him the whole shameful tale.
When I had finished he sat down on the hill-side and, burying his face
in his hands, was silent for a space. Then he rose, and laying a hand
upon my shoulder peered into my face. The darkness was yet too great
for us to see each other clearly, but his eyes were glistening.
"It is not," he said, "for me to judge. God knows! but I am thinking
that your desertion was more than a whim, though I would not go the
length of saying that you have repented with tears for the evil you have
done. May God forgive you, and may grace be given you to turn ere it is
too late from the paths of the wicked."
As I told him my story I had feared that when he heard it he would have
nothing more to do with me: but I had misjudged his charity. Suddenly
he held his hand out to me, saying:
"Providence has cast us together, mayhap that your soul may be saved,
and mine kept from withering. I am ready to be your friend if you will
be mine."
I took his outstretched hand. I had longed for his friendship for my
own selfish ends, and he, who had nothing to gain from my friendship,
offered me his freely.
The night had worn thin as we talked, and now in the growing light I
could see my companion more clearly. He seemed a man well past middle
life; before long I was to learn that he was more than three score years
and ten, but neither at this moment nor later should I have imagined it.
He was straight as a ramrod, spare of body and pallid of face, save
where on his high cheek-bones the moorland wind and the rays of the
summer sun had burned him brown. The hair of his head was black,
streaked here and there by a few scanty threads of silver. His forehead
was broad and high, his nose was well-formed and somewhat aquiline, and
his brown eyes were full of light. It was to his eyes and to his mouth,
around which there seemed to lurk some wistful playfulness, that his
face owed its attraction. He was without doubt a handsome man--I have
rarely seen a handsomer.
As I peered into his face and looked him up and down, somewhat rudely I
fear, he was studying me with care. My woebegone appearance seemed to
amuse him, for when his scrutiny was over he said:
"Ye're no' ill-faured: but I'm thinking Lag would be ill-pleased if he
saw one of his dragoons in sic a mess."
"I trust he won't," I said with fervour, and my companion laughed
heartily.
He laid a hand upon my arm, and with a twinkle in his eye said: "The old
Book says: 'If thine enemy hunger, feed him.' Have you anything to
eat?"
I showed him what I had and invited him to help himself, as I picked up
my tunic and slipped it on.
"No, no," he replied, "I am better provided than you. The Lord that
sent the ravens to Elijah has spread for me a table in the wilderness
and my cup runneth over. Come with me and let us break our fast
together. They do say that to eat a man's salt thirls another to him as
a friend. I have no salt to offer you, but"--and he smiled--"I have
plenty of mutton ham, and I am thinking you will find that salt enough."
The light was rapidly flooding the hill-side as we took our way round to
his side of the loch.
"Bide here a minute," he said, as he left me beside a granite boulder.
I guessed that, with native caution, he was as yet averse to let me see
his resting-place, or the place in which he stored his food. In my
heart of hearts the slight stung me, and then I realised that I had no
right to expect that a Covenanter should trust me absolutely, on the
instant. In a few moments he was back again, and I was amazed at the
quantity of food he brought with him. It was wrapped in a fair cloth of
linen, which he spread carefully on the hill-side, arranging the food
upon it. There were farles of oatcake, and scones, besides the remains
of a goodly leg of mutton. When the feast was spread he stood up and
taking off his bonnet began to pray aloud. I listened till he had
finished his lengthy prayer, refraining from laying hands upon any of
the toothsome food that lay before me. When he had ground out a long
"Amen," he opened his eyes and replaced his bonnet. Then he cut a
generous slice of mutton and passed it to me.
"I never break my fast," he said, "without thanking God, and I am glad
to see that you are a well-mannered young man. I dare hardly have
expected so much from a trooper."
"Ah," I answered, "I have had advantages denied to most of the
troopers."
He nodded his head, and lapsing into the speech of the country-side, as
I had yet to learn was his wont whenever his feelings were stirred, he
said:
"That reminds me of what once befell mair than thirty years sin' when I
was daunnerin' along the road from Kirkcudbright to Causewayend. It was
a summer day just like this, and on the road I foregathered wi' a
sailor-body that had come off a schooner in Kirkcudbright. We walked
along and cracked, and I found him, like every other sailor-man, to be
an interesting chiel. By and by we cam' to a roadside inn. I asked him
to join me in a bite and sup. The inn-keeper's lass brocht us scones
and cheese and a dram apiece, and when they were set afore us, I, as is
my custom, took off my bonnet and proceeded to thank the Lord for these
temporal mercies. When I opened ma een I found that my braw sailor lad
had gulped doon my dram as weel as his ain, while I was asking the
blessing. 'What dae ye mean by sic a ploy?' says I; but the edge was
ta'en off ma anger when the sailor-man, wiping his moo' wi' the back o'
his haun', said, 'Weel, sir, the guid Book says ye should watch as weel
as pray.'"
At the memory of the trick played upon him my companion burst into
laughter, and I have rarely heard a happier laugh.
He was a generous host, and pressed me to take my fill.
"There is plenty for us both," he said. "Dinna be blate, my lad, help
yersel'." Then as he offered me another slice of mutton, he said: "I am
thinking that the ravens are kinder to me than they were to Elijah, for,
so far as I know, they never brocht him a mutton ham. But who ever
heard o' a braxy sheep in the wilds o' Mount Carmel!" and he laughed
again.
When our meal was over he looked me up and down again. I could see that
he was distressed at the condition of my clothing, but I explained to
him that I considered my fall into the bog a blessing in disguise, since
it toned down the bright colour of my garments and would make them less
easily seen upon the moorland.
"That's as may be, but ye're an awfu' sicht. However, I've no doubt
that when the glaur dries it winna look so bad."
As he talked I was divesting myself of my uniform, and as I stood before
him in my shirt he looked me over again and said: "You might disguise
yourself by making a kilt out o' your coat, but twa sic' spindle shanks
o' legs would gi'e you awa' at once. I know well, since ye're an
Englishman, ye werena' brought up on the carritches, and I can see for
myself ye got no oatmeal when ye were a bairn."
I laughed, as I tossed my last garment aside, and running to the edge of
the loch plunged into its depths. He watched me as I swam, and when I
came to the shore again I found him drying my outer garments over a fire
which he had kindled.
"It'll be time for bed," he said, "in a few minutes. You take your ways
to your own hidie-hole and I will take my way to mine; and may God send
us sweet repose. No man can tell, but I am thinking there will be no
troopers up here the day. They combed this loch-side a fortnight sin',
and when they had gone I came and hid here. Maist likely they'll no' be
back here for a long time."
I thanked him for his hospitality, and as I turned to go I said: "Where
shall I find you to-night, for I should like to have more of your
company?"
"Well," he answered, "I always sleep on this side of the loch; and when
night falls and a' thing seems safe, it is mair than likely ye'll hear
me playing a bit tune on the flute. When ye hear that, if ye come round
to this side and just wait a wee, ye'll likely see me again. Good
morning! and God bless you!"
*CHAPTER IX*
*THE STORY OF ALEXANDER MAIN*
I made for my hiding-place, and, snugly covered up in my lair, I was
soon asleep. In the late afternoon I awoke. What it was that woke me I
know not, but as I lay half-conscious in the dreamy shallows that lie
around the sea of sleep, I heard something stir among the brackens not
far from me. I raised myself on an elbow, and separating the fronds
above me gazed in the direction from which the sound came. Less than a
score of paces away a winsome girl was tripping briskly along the
hill-side. Her head was crowned with masses of chestnut-brown hair
which glistened with a golden sheen where the sunlight caught it. Over
her shoulders was flung lightly a plaid of shepherd's tartan. Her gown
was of a dull reddish colour, and she walked lightly, with elastic step.
I was not near enough, nor dare I, lest I should be seen, crane my neck
beyond my hiding-place to see her features clearly, but I could tell
that she was fair to look upon. My eyes followed her wistfully as she
rapidly ascended the slope, but in a moment she was out of sight over
its crest. I wondered who she could be. This mountain fastness was a
place of strange surprises. I pondered long but could find no light, so
I settled myself to sleep again; but ere I slept there flitted through
my waking dreams the vision of a winsome maid with hair a glory of
sun-kissed brown.
On waking, my first thought was of her, and anxiously and half-hopefully
I peeped into the gathering darkness to see if she had come back again;
but there was nothing to see except the beds of heather, purple in the
gathering twilight, and the grey shadows of the granite rocks scattered
along the hill-side.
I judged that the time had come when I might with safety issue from my
hiding-place, so I ventured forth. Sitting down upon the hill-side I
helped myself to some of my rapidly diminishing food. As I did so, I
thought with gratitude of the hermit on the other side of the loch, who,
of his large charity, had made me free of his ample stores.
And then the truth flashed upon me--the little bird which brought his
food was no repulsive, croaking raven, but a graceful
heather-lintie--the girl whom I had seen that afternoon.
When I had finished eating, I went down to the edge of the loch and,
stooping, drank. Then I returned to my seat and waited. The stars were
coming out one by one, and the horn of the moon was just appearing like
the point of a silver sickle above a bank of clouds when I heard the
music of the flute. It pulsated with a haunting beauty, like some elfin
melody which the semi-darkness and the intervening water conspired to
render strangely sweet. Evidently the player was in a happy mood, for
his notes were instinct with joy, and, though they lacked that mystic
sadness which had so thrilled me a night ago, they cast a glamour over
me. When the music ceased I tarried for a space, for I had no desire to
break in upon the devotions of my friend; but by and by I made my way
round to the other side of the loch.
I found the hermit awaiting me. He bade me "Good e'en" and asked if I
had had anything to eat. I told him that I had already satisfied my
hunger.
"That is a pity," he said, "for the ravens have been kind to-day and
have brought me a little Galloway cheese forby twa or three girdles-fu'
o' guid, crisp oatcake; by the morn they'll no' be so tasty, so just try
a corner and a wee bit o' cheese along with me."
Little loth, I assented, and soon I was enjoying some of his toothsome
store. I ate sparingly, for I had already blunted the edge of my hunger
and I had no wish to abuse his generosity. As I nibbled the crisp
oatcake I thought of the girl I had seen on the hill-side, and in a fit
of curiosity said: "I have been thinking that though the Lord sent the
ravens to feed Elijah, he has been sending somebody bonnier and blither
to feed you--in fact no raven, but a heather-lintie!"
He looked at me quickly, and replied: "I am no' sayin' yea or nay; and
at any rate you have no call to exercise your mind with what doesna
concern you."
The rebuke was a just one and I was sorry for my offence.
When our meal was over, he took me by the arm. "What say you to a walk
by the light o' the moon?" he asked. "I'll guarantee you will fall into
no more bogs, for I know every foot of these hills as well as I know the
palm of my hand."
"Your pleasure is mine," I said. So we set out, and as we went he
talked.
"Last night," he said, "you told me your story; to-night, if you care to
listen, I will tell you mine.
"I am an older man by far than you are, and I will never see the
three-score and ten again. As my days so has my strength been. I have
seen a feck of things and taken part in many a deed that will help to
make history. You may think I boast myself, but listen. My name is
Alexander Main, and, as you ken, I am a minister of the Kirk of
Scotland. The year 1638 saw me a student in the Glasgow College--that
is long syne, and they were stirring times. Ye may have heard of that
great gathering in the Greyfriars Kirk at Edinburgh on the last day of
February 1638, when we swore and put our names to the National Covenant.
It was a great day. The crowd filled kirk and yard. Well do I mind the
gallant Warriston reading the Covenant, much of which had come glowing
from his own pen--but most of all I mind the silence that fell upon us
when the reading was over. Then the good Earl of Sutherland stepped
forward and put his name to it, and man followed man, each eager to
pledge himself to the bond. Some of us, I mind well, wrote after their
names the words 'Till death,' and others signed it with their blood."
"And what might this Covenant be?" I asked.
"Ah," he said, "I had forgotten. Briefly the bond was this: 'to adhere
to and defend the true religion of Presbyterianism, and to labour to
recover the purity and liberty of the Gospel as it was established and
professed in the Kingdom of Scotland.' It was to put an end to all
endeavours to foist prelacy upon us and to signify our adherence to the
Presbyterian form of Church-government which King James himself had
sworn to uphold in this Kingdom of Scotland, that we put our names to
the bond. Not that we were against the King, for in the Covenant it was
written plain that we were ready with our lives to stand to the defence
of our dread sovereign, the King's Majesty. The wave of fervour spread
like a holy fire from that old kirkyard through the length and breadth
of Scotland, and the noblest blood in the land and the flower of its
intellect signed the Covenant. Later on there came a day when those who
stood for liberty of conscience in England as well as Scotland made a
compact. That was the Solemn League and Covenant, whereby we bound
ourselves to preserve a reformed religion in the Church of Scotland.
The memory of man is short, and it has almost been forgotten that the
solemn league was a joint Scottish and English affair, and that it was
ratified by the English Parliament. These things were the beginning,
but since then this puir kingdom has passed through the fire."
He paused and sighed deeply, then picking up the thread of his words
again he told me the chequered history of the Covenanters for close on
fifty years. It was a story that thrilled me--a record of suffering, of
high endeavour, of grievous wrong. Of his own sufferings he made
little, though he had suffered sore, and I, who had never felt the call
to sacrifice myself for a principle, was humbled to the dust as I
listened. He spoke in accents tense with emotion, and sometimes his
voice rang with pride. I was too spell-bound to interrupt him, though
many questions were upon my lips.
At last he ceased, as though the memories he was recalling had
overwhelmed him, then he resumed:
"So, in some sort, my story is the story of puir auld Scotland, for the
past fifty years. It is a tragedy, and the pity is--a needless tragedy!
If the rulers of a land would study history and human nature, it would
save them from muckle wrong-doing and oppression. It has been tried
before and, I doubt not, it will be tried many a time again, but it will
never succeed--for no tyrant can destroy the soul of a people by brute
force. They call us rebels, and maybe so we are, but we were not rebels
in the beginning. Two kings signed the bond: the Parliament passed it.
We remained true to our pledged word; the kings forgot theirs, and they
call us the law-breakers. And some call us narrow-minded fanatics.
Some of us may be; for when the penalty of a man's faith is his death,
he may come to lay as much stress on the commas in his creed as on the
principles it declares. No man has the right to compromise on the
fundamentals.
"Sometimes I wonder if I had my life to live over again whether I would
do as I have done. Maist likely I should, for all through I have let my
conscience guide me. I have no regrets, but only a gnawing sorrow that
sometimes torments me. I have been in dangers many, and I have never
lowered my flag, either to a fear or to a denial of my faith, and yet
the Lord has not counted me worthy to win the martyr's crown." His
voice broke, and he hesitated for a moment, then went on: "I have fought
a good fight; I have almost finished my course, but whether I have kept
the faith is no' for me to say. I have tried.
"The night of Scotland's woe has been long and stormy; but the dawn of a
better day is not far off, and she will yet take her place in the
forefront of the nations as the land in which the battle for liberty of
conscience was fought and won.
"Look ye," and he pointed to the east, where the darkness was beginning
to break as the sun swung up from his bed.
*CHAPTER X*
*THE FIELD MEETING*
A week passed uneventfully. Each night I joined my friend and the glad
notes of his flute were still our signal: each morning we parted to
sleep through the daylight hours each in his own hiding-place.
I was strangely attracted by this old man. He was a gentle spirit,
quick to take offence, often when none was meant, but equally quick to
forget. He had a quaint humour, flashes of which lightened our converse
as we walked together in the night, and he had all the confidence of a
little child in the abiding love of God. As I parted with him one
morning, he said:
"I doubt you'll no' ken what day of the week this is."
I was quick to confess my ignorance.
"Well," he said, "it is Saturday, and ye'll no' hear me playing the
nicht. On such a nicht one is too near the threshold of the Sabbath day
lichtly to engage in sic a worldly amusement. However, if ye'll come
round to my side of the loch about the usual time, we'll tak' a bite o'
supper together--after that ye'd better leave me to my meditations in
view of the Lord's Day, for I am preaching the morn."
"In which church, may I ask?" I said, forgetting for a moment where I
was.
"In the kirk of the moorland," he answered, "which has no roof but God's
heaven, and no altar but the loving hearts of men and women!"
A sudden desire sprang up in my heart. "Sir," I said, hesitatingly, "I
do not consider myself worthy, but I should count it a high honour if I
may come with you."
He paused before he answered: "The House is the Lord's, He turns no man
from His door: come, an you wish it." Then he laughed, and looking me
up and down said: "Man, but you're an awfu' sicht if you are coming. Ye
wadna like to appear before Lag in sic unsoldierly trappings: daur ye
face God?" Then he laid a hand on my shoulder, and looking into my face
with his piercing eyes, said: "The Lord tak's nae pleasure in the looks
o' a man, and belike he pays little heed to claes or the beggar at the
rich man's gate wouldna have had much of a chance; it is the heart that
counts, my lad, it is the heart, and a contrite heart He will not
despise." Then he gripped me by the hand, and said: "Awa to your bed
and come an' look for me by and by, and syne we'll set out for the kirk.
It is a long road to travel and ye'll need a good rest before we start."
So I left him and made my way back to my own side of the loch. There I
undressed and looked ruefully at my mud-bespattered garments. They
certainly were far from that soldierly spotlessness of which I had been
so proud when first I donned them. But the mud on them was quite dry,
so I made a heather brush, and brushed them well. Then I took them down
to the loch-side and washed out some of the more obstinate stains, then
laying them to dry among the brackens I sought my bed.
When I awoke night had fallen, so, leaving my hiding place, I sought my
garments and put them on.
I judged that it must be nearly ten o'clock as I went round the head of
the loch to seek my friend. I found him awaiting me at our
trysting-place and we ate our meal in silence. When we had finished, he
said: "Wait for me here; I will come again ere long," and disappeared
into the darkness. I sat in the starlit silence watching the moon's
fitful light move upon the face of the waters. Many thoughts passed
through my mind. I wondered what reception I, in a trooper's uniform,
would receive at the hands of the hill-men whom I was shortly to meet.
Would the guarantee of the minister be credential sufficient: then a
doubt assailed me. I knew that as a deserter I was under penalty of
death--but even a deserter, if captured, might still be pardoned; but to
have, as a further charge in the indictment against him, that of
consorting with proscribed hill-men and taking part in a Conventicle
would rob me of the last chance of pardon if I should ever fall into the
hands of my pursuers. For a moment I was tempted to withdraw from this
new adventure. Then I spurned myself for a coward. I owed my life to
the friendliness of this old man, who daily gave me so ungrudgingly of
his store, and I felt that it would be base and ungrateful to withdraw
now, since, after all, the invitation to accompany him was of my own
seeking.
The moments passed slowly, and I judged that more than an hour had
elapsed since he left me. I began to grow uneasy. Had he lost me in
the dark, or had he judged me unworthy to accompany him, and gone off
alone? I rose to my feet, determined to make a search for him, when I
heard the rustle of his footsteps, and in a moment he was beside me.
"Did you think I wasna comin' back?" he queried. "I have just been
wrestling with a point o' doctrine; but I've got the truth o't now.
Come!" and he set out along the hill-side.
He walked slowly, absorbed in deep meditation. I followed close on his
heels, seeking to make sure of my footsteps by keeping as near him as
possible. He seemed in no mood to talk, and I held my tongue.
When we had walked for two hours, he stopped suddenly and said: "We are
half-way there now. I think that we might take a rest," and he sat down
on a hummock on the hill-side.
I sat down beside him, and more by way of breaking the silence than from
any special desire to talk--for I had little to say, I remarked: "What a
beautiful night!"
He grunted, and in spite of the darkness I could see him shrug his
shoulders with displeasure.
"Wheesht, man," he said. "This is nae time to speak about sic things.
Have ye forgotten it is the Sabbath day?"
I was unprepared for such a rebuff, and a hot reply sprang to my lips,
but I felt unwilling to hurt his feelings, so I held my tongue.
He sat with his knees drawn up towards his chin, his clasped hands
holding them, and his eyes fixed on the distance.
I stretched myself lazily upon the hill-side and awaited his pleasure.
We rested for a long time, and then, as the eastern sky began to break
into light, he rose to his feet and saying, "It is time to go on," he
set out again. I followed close behind him as before. He walked with
his hands clasped behind his back, his two thumbs revolving ceaselessly
round each other.
Out of the ebb of night, day rose like a goddess. Before me was beauty
unspeakable. The moorland was covered by a thin vale of mist. Here and
there, where the sun was reflected from it, it shone like silver, and
where some mischievous hill-wind had torn a rent in it, a splash of
brown heath or a tussock of purple heather broke colouringly through.
The world was waking up from its slumber. A hare, startled, sprang
along the hill-side before us--its ears acock, its body zig-zagging as
though to evade some apprehended missile. The whaups called to each
other mournfully, and, high above us, unseen, a lark poured out its soul
in sparkling song.
I was beginning to wonder when we should arrive at our destination, when
my companion turned suddenly to the left and walked downhill into the
valley. Here, for a time, we followed what had been the bed of an
ancient stream, long since dried up, until we came to a cleft between
the hills which gradually widened out into a kind of amphitheatre.
Almost for the first time since we had left our hiding-place, my
companion spoke.
"This is the trysting-place," he said. "The folk will be here ere long.
I'll leave ye while I complete my preparations," and saying "Rest ye,"
he walked on through the amphitheatre and disappeared.
I stretched myself upon my back and drew my bonnet over my eyes. I know
not how long I lay thus, but suddenly I was conscious that someone was
standing beside me, and opening my eyes I saw the minister at my side.
"They are beginning to come," he said, as he looked out through the
cleft by which we had entered the hollow. My gaze followed his, and I
saw at some distance a man of middle age, followed by two younger men,
coming in single file towards us. My companion left me and hurried to
meet them. I saw him approach the eldest with outstretched hand which
was taken and shaken vigorously; then he greeted the two younger men,
and the four stood, a little knot in the morning light, talking
earnestly.
From glances that were cast from time to time in my direction, I knew
they were talking of me. The colloquy lasted for some time. My friend
was apparently vouching for my trustworthiness with many protestations,
for I could see him strike the palm of his left hand with his clenched
right fist. At last the minister and the elder man came towards me.
The two younger men separated, one climbing to the top of the ridge on
one side of the amphitheatre and the other ascending the slope upon its
other side.
I surmised that these two younger men were to play the part of sentinels
to give timely warning, if need arose, of the coming of the dreaded
troopers. They had no weapons but shepherd's crooks.
As the two elder men approached me, I rose, and as they drew nearer I
heard my friend still pleading for me. "I believe that, at heart, he is
no' a bad young man, but being English, his opportunities have been few,
and he is strangely lacking in a knowledge o' the fundamentals, but I am
hoping that he may yet prove to be a brand plucked from the burning."
With difficulty I restrained a smile, but I took a step towards them
and, bowing to my friend's companion who stood straight-backed and
stalwart before me, I said: "My uniform is but a poor passport to your
trust, but the heart beneath it is not a false heart and none of your
people need fear ill from me."
The old man offered me his hand. "Young man," he said, "I hae little
cause to trust your coat, but if your creedentials satisfy the
meenister, they're guid enough for Tammas Frazer."
"That's richt, Thomas!" cried the minister, "that's richt. As the Buik
says: 'Charity suffereth long and is kind'!"
We stood silent for an embarrassed moment, until the hill-man said: "And
noo, Meenister, ye'll gi'e us a word afore I set the kirk in order," and
lifting their bonnets the two men closed their eyes.
I followed their example, and then the minister lifted up his voice and,
in tones of pathetic earnestness, besought the blessing of God upon all
the doings of the day; sought, too, for divine protection for all who at
the hazard of their lives should come to worship there that Sabbath
morning.
When the prayer was over, Thomas turned to me, and said: "You are a
likely young man and a hefty; we had better leave the man o' God to his
meditations. Come and lend me a hand."
For a moment I was at a loss to understand what he meant, but I followed
him, and when he picked up a small boulder I did likewise and together
we carried the stones to the sloping hillside and arranged them at short
intervals from each other. Altogether we gathered some thirty or forty
stones, which we set in semi-circular rows. Opposite to these, on the
other side of the amphitheatre, we built a little mound of boulders and
laid upon the top of it a great flat rock. This was to be the
preacher's pulpit, and I was struck with the care that Thomas devoted to
its building. When it was finished he stood upon it and tested it.
Satisfied, he descended from it, saying: "It'll dae fine. There's
naething like a guid foundation for a sermon," and in his austere eyes a
light flickered.
By this time other worshippers had begun to gather and were thronging
round the minister in little clusters. From the looks cast in my
direction I knew that I was the object of more than one inquiry, and
while my recent companion went forward to greet some other of the
worshippers, I hung back a little shamefacedly. Seeing my hesitation the
minister beckoned me, and when I came near he placed a hand upon my
shoulder and said:
"My friends, here is the prodigal. He has eaten of the husks of the
swine, but, I think, he has at last set his foot on the road to his
Father's house."
It was a strange introduction, received in silence by the little group,
and with a mounting colour I looked at the people and they looked at me.
There was a glint of challenge in the eyes of some of the men and a hint
of suspicion in others. The older women looked at me with something I
took for pity; the younger ones pretended not to look at all. The
silence was embarrassing, but it was broken by the minister who said:
"And now, my friends, it is time to begin our service. Will you take
your places?" and turning to me he said, "Young man, I think ye'd better
come and sit near the pulpit, where I can see that ye behave yersel'!"
In silence, and with a demure sobriety as though they were crossing the
threshold of a holy place, they stepped across the dip in the
amphitheatre and seated themselves upon the stones laid ready for them.
I walked behind the minister towards his pulpit. A couple of paces from
it he stopped and raised his right hand high above his head. On the top
of the hill that faced us I saw one of the sentinels spring erect and
hold his hand aloft, and turning, we saw that the sentinel on the other
hill top had made a like signal. It was a sign that all was well, and
that the service might safely begin.
The minister mounted his pulpit and I sat down a little below it. In a
voice which rang melodiously through the silence he said: "Let us
worship God by singing to His praise the 121st psalm." He read the
psalm from beginning to end and then the congregation, still sitting,
took up the refrain and sang slowly the confident words. It was a psalm
which to these hill-folk must have been charged with many memories.
There was more of earnestness than of melody in the singing, but
suddenly I was aware of one voice that sounded clear and bell-like among
the jumble of raucous notes. My ears guided my eyes and I was able to
pick the singer out.
*CHAPTER XI*
*FLOWER O' THE HEATHER*
She was a girl of some twenty years who sat on the slope opposite to me.
Her features were regular and fine and in strange contrast to the rugged
countenances that surrounded her. From underneath the kerchief that
snooded her hair a wanton lock of gold strayed over the whiteness of her
high forehead. I caught a glimpse of two pink ears set like wild roses
among the locks that clustered round them. She sat demurely, unaware of
my rapt scrutiny. Her lips were red as ripe cherries, and as she sang I
saw behind them the glint of white and regular teeth. Her eyes I could
not catch; they were lifted to the distant sky over the hill-tops; her
soul was in her singing. One hand rested in her lap, the other hung down
by her side, and almost touched the grass beside her rough seat. The
open book upon her knees was open for form's sake only. She was singing
from her heart and she knew the words without appeal to the printed
page. I took my eyes from her with difficulty and let them wander over
the little congregation of which she was a part, but I found no face
there which could hold them, and quickly they turned again to look upon
this winsome maid.
She had lowered her eyes now, and as I glanced across at her I met their
level gaze. There was a glint of light in them such as I have seen upon
a moorland tarn when the sunbeams frolic there, and as I looked at her I
was aware that something within me was beating against my ribs like a
wild caged bird.
When the psalm was ended the minister behind me said solemnly, "Let us
pray," and over against me I saw the heads of the congregation bend
reverently. Some sat with clasped hands, others buried their faces in
the hollow of their palms. My devotions were divided, and before the
preacher had completed his sentences of invocation I found myself
peeping through my separated fingers at the girl. Her eyes were closed,
her dainty hands were clasped delicately. I had never, till that moment,
known that the human hand may become as subtle an instrument for
expressing the feelings as the human eye. In her clasped hands I saw
the rapture of a splendid faith: I saw devotion that would not shrink
from death; I saw love and sacrifice.
The preacher prayed on, embracing in his petitions the furthest corners
of the universe. His words fell on my ears, but I did not hear them,
for at that moment my whole world centred in this alluring daughter of
the Covenant.
Once again I was conscious that my heart was thumping wildly, and I was
selfish enough to wonder whether my presence was disturbing her
devotions as much as hers was destroying mine. But she gave no sign.
The lustrous pools of her eyes were hidden from my gaze behind the
dropped lids. So long as she was unaware of it, I felt no hesitation in
letting my eyes dwell upon her, to drink in the beauty of her
soul-filled face.
I was still gazing upon this vision when suddenly the prayer ended. I
can tell no more of the service. I only know that in that little band of
worshippers I was one of the most fervent--but I fear that I was
worshipping one of God's creatures rather than God Himself.
After the benediction had been pronounced over the standing
congregation, I looked up at the sky and judged that well-nigh three
hours must have elapsed since we sang the opening psalm, and to me it
had passed in a flash. Never before had I known the minutes fly upon
such winged feet.
I shook myself out of my dream and turned towards the minister. He had
dropped on his knees and was engaged in silent prayer. Unwilling to
disturb him, I turned once more toward the congregation which had
already arisen from its stony pews and was standing clustered in little
knots. I hesitated for a moment, and as I hung uncertain I felt an arm
slip through mine. It was the minister.
"Come," he said, "you must get to know some of my flock. I could tell,
my lad, as ye sat at my feet during the service that you were strangely
moved."
Good honest man! I had been strangely moved, but by other emotions than
those for which he gave me credit!
As he talked, we had descended the slope and stood in the hollow. The
congregation gathered round us; many of the men, and some of the older
women, grasped the preacher warmly by the hand. There was no
effusiveness in these salutations, but a quiet earnestness that bespoke
their love for him.
"Ye were michty in prayer the day," said one, while I heard another
exclaim: "Ye divided the word maist skilfully, sir. The twalfth heid
micht ha'e been expanded wi' advantage, but your fourteenth was
by-ordinar'. I never heard finer words o' grace, no even frae godly
Samuel Rutherford himself. God keep ye, sir." "Ay," said another.
"When ye gied oot yer sixth heid says I tae masel', 'Noo, how will he
handle that ane: but, sir, ye were maisterfu', an' I was mair than
satisfied."
These words of praise were accepted by the minister with a modest
derogation: "I am but a frail mouthpiece," he said. "The message has
suffered through my poor imperfections."
In the press around him I was suddenly conscious of _her_ presence. I
saw his face light up with a smile as he stretched his hand out to her:
"Mary, lass," he said, as he drew her towards him, "ye're a woman grown.
It seems but yesterday that I baptised you."
My eyes were on her face, and I saw the colour mount beneath her healthy
brown as she smiled. I felt I would have given all of life that might
lie before me had that smile been for me. With ears alert I waited to
hear her speak. Softly, and in sweet accents, within whose music there
was a note of roguery, she answered:
"If the wee ravens didna grow up, wha would bring food to Elijah?"
The minister laughed. "It was a fine cheese, Mary, and your oatcakes
couldna be bettered in the shire. What say you, young man?" he said,
turning to me.
The moment I had dreamed of had come, and the eyes of the girl were
turned expectantly upon me, and then, fool that I was, any readiness of
wit I had, oozed through the soles of my feet and left me standing in
the adorable presence, an inarticulate dolt. I mumbled I know not what,
but she laughed my confusion aside.
"If there are twa mouths to fill," she said, "the ravens will ha'e to
fly into the wilderness a wee oftener. I maun tell mither."
She looked at me, and then with a glint in her beautiful eyes that made
me think she had not been altogether unaware of my scrutiny during the
service, said: "For a trooper, ye behaved very weel," and then lest I
might imagine that I was more to her than the merest insect that hides
among the heather, she turned once more to the minister.
I was too young then to know that, be she Covenanter's daughter or Court
lady, woman is ever the same, with the same arts to provoke, the same
witchery to allure, the same artfully artless skill to torture and to
heal the heart of man. She had turned away from me, but in doing so she
had drawn me closer to herself, and I was rivetted to the ground where I
stood, ready to stand there for ever--just to be within sound of her
voice, within arm's length of her hand. Suddenly she disentangled
herself from the little group and going to its outskirts placed her hand
upon the arm of a middle-aged bearded man and brought him to the
minister. There was something in the shape of the forehead and eyebrows
of the man that made me think he might be her father, and my thought was
confirmed when the minister, taking him by the hand, said:
"Andrew, you have a daughter to be proud of. Her mither's ain bairn, and
a bonnie lass."
Her father paid no attention to the compliment, and as though to bring
back the thoughts of the man of God from such a worldly object as a
pretty girl, said:
"And when may we expect ye tae honour our hoose by comin' for the
catechisin'?"
"God willing, I shall be at Daldowie on Friday next, and, Andrew, I'll
expect ye to be sounder in the proofs than ye were last time."
"And now," he said, turning to me, "we must be going. We have a long
road before us. God keep you all. Good-bye," and without another word
he strode away. I followed him, and as I passed the girl she glanced at
me and her lips moved. I hesitated and stopped, and O wonder! she had
stretched out her hand to me.
"Good-bye," she said. "Tak' care of the minister. Maybe you'll convoy
him to the catechisin'."
"Trust me," I said. "No harm shall touch a hair of his head if I can
fend it off."
"Thank you," she replied. "I think I can trust you, in spite o' your
coat," and she dropped my hand.
That was all: but her words and the trust she was ready to place in me
had made my whole world glow. I hurried after the minister, walking on
air, and felt sorely tempted to burst into song, but I knew that, on
such a day, to have done so would have rendered me suspect of wanton
godlessness and I restrained myself; but it was only outwardly. My
heart was singing like a clutch of larks, and the rugged hill-side was
covered with springing flowers. Once before I had felt the spell of a
woman, but never till now had any daughter of Eve cast such a glamour
over me. Was it love? Was it love? And if it were--was it love on my
side alone? It must be, for how dare I think that a renegade trooper,
hall-marked by a uniform that to these simple folk meant blood and
death, could awaken in the sweet soul of that innocent girl feelings
such as she had stirred within my breast, I pictured her again: I saw
her sweet brown eyes, and I remembered the glory of her hair, which for
a moment I had seen in all its beauty when her kerchief had slipped
back. It was chestnut-brown, coiled in great masses, save just above
her brow, where in some mood of whim nature had set a golden curl like
an aureole. And as I fondly recalled her features one by one I found
myself thinking that behind the demure repose of her face there lurked
some elfin roguishness--something elusive that gave her a mysterious
charm.
I walked on in a maze of dreams, but was called sharply back to earth by
the voice of the minister.
"Where are you going, my lad? Are you making for the border, or where?
Our road lies up the brae face," and turning I discovered that, in my
dreams, instead of following the minister I was walking obliquely away
from him. I ran to rejoin him, but I had no excuse ready to explain my
error, nor did he ask for one. We resumed our walk together and in a
moment or two he said:
"Well, what think you o' a Conventicle?"
There was no mental reservation in my reply: "Never, sir, did I so enjoy
a religious service."
"Enjoy?" he repeated, questioningly. "Enjoy? that is a worldly word to
use concerning such a privilege."
I looked at him sharply, half suspecting that he had guessed the cause
of my appreciation of the field-meeting; but there was nothing in his
solemn countenance to make me think he suspected me of duplicity.
"You English folk," he continued, "have queer ways of using your own
language. I can understand a hungry man enjoying a hearty meal; but
enjoying a privilege seems wrong. One accepts a privilege with a
thankful and humble heart." Then he stopped suddenly, stamping his foot
upon the ground. "Alexander Main," he said, "ye're wrong. You are
misjudging the young man; ye're growing old, and the sap in your heart
is drying up. Shame on you that you should ever doubt that a man may
rejoice at being privileged to enter the presence of God." Then he
stretched out his hand: "Forgive me, young man. We Scots have perhaps
lost our sense of joy in our sense of duty, but we are wrong, wrong,
wrong!"
His wonted kindliness of heart was bubbling over. My joy had come from a
very human source and sorely was I tempted to explain myself: but I held
my peace.
We took the path again and plodded along the hillside until we came to
the top of a long ridge. As we drew near it the minister signalled to
me to crouch down, and on his hands and knees he crawled up and peered
long and earnestly over the other side. I knew the reason of his
caution. If he stood erect on the brow-top his dark figure, sharp-cut
against the sky, might be seen by some patrol of troopers on the
moorland. His caution brought me back sharply from the land of dreams.
He and I were hunted men.
Apparently his scrutiny satisfied him, for he turned round and, sitting
down, said: "We may rest here awhile." I sat beside him and together we
scanned the valley that lay below us. It seemed to be a vast solitude,
but as I looked I began to pick out here and there a moving figure, and
startled, I called his attention to them. He looked and, after a pause,
made answer: "They are only the moorland folk making their ways home.
See yonder, that is no trooper, but a woman. Poor, harried sheep! May
the Great Shepherd guide them all to the fold of home, and in His own
good time to the fold abune." I looked again, scanning the moorland
with sharpened eyes in the hope that afar I might catch a glimpse of her
whose life had touched mine so tenderly that day; but I could not
discern her.
I was stirred by a strange desire to talk, and I began to put to my
companion questions about some of his flock, and by devious paths I led
him to the subject that was really in my heart.
"Mary," he said, "what would you know about Mary?" and then he smiled.
"Oh, that is how the land lies, is it? Well, I'm no' surprised. She's
a bonnie lass, and as good as she is bonnie, and a likely lass to take a
young man's eye. But put her out of your mind. She's no' for you. The
dove maunna' mate wi' the corbie."
"She must be a brave woman," I said, "for I understand that she brings
us our food."
"Wha tell't ye that?" he exclaimed, turning upon me sharply and lapsing
into the fashion of speech which was ever his refuge when he was moved.
"Well, sir," I answered, "you said as much, and I put two and two
together."
"Did I?" he exclaimed. "Well, ye maun guess nae mair; dinna forget this
is the Sabbath day."
*CHAPTER XII*
*THE GREATER LOVE*
Idly I pulled a little sprig of thyme which grew beside me, and crushing
it between my fingers inhaled its perfume.
My companion watched me, saying: "Wonderful! wonderful! what glories
there are in creation. Many a time I've lain awake at nights and
thought about it all. Flowers on the moor, far bonnier than anything
that ever man fashioned; birds in the air lilting sweeter melodies than
man can make; the colour spilled across the sky when the sun sets; the
mist on the hills. Glory everywhere; but nothing to the glory
yonder"--and he raised his eyes to the heavens.
When we had rested for a time, my companion rose and we set out again.
The sun was setting when we came within sight of our hiding places.
"Come to my side of the loch," he said. "Ye'll want your supper before
ye make for your bed," and together we made for the place where we had
already enjoyed so many meals together. I went to the little stream to
see if haply I might discover a trout there, but he forbade me sternly.
"Must I tell ye again that it is the Sabbath day? Ye maunna catch fish
the nicht."
He left me for a moment, and sought his little store, and when he came
back, we took our meal in silence. When we had finished he said: "I am
wearied to-night; God send us sweet repose," and kneeling down he
commended us both and "all good hill-folk" to the protection of the
Almighty. He prayed too for his little congregation, and as he did so I
wondered if another prayer might at that hour be ascending like incense
from the lips of the girl who had begun to haunt my heart; and I
wondered if in her petitions there would be any thought of me.
When his prayer was over the old man rose to his feet, and laying a hand
upon my shoulder while I bowed my uncovered head he lifted his face to
the sky and gave me his blessing. There was a catch in my voice as,
touched at heart and humbled, I bade him "Good night."
I walked round the end of the loch and sought my hiding-place, but
though I was fatigued I could not fall asleep. The stars were
glittering afar, and I wondered if at that moment she, too, were looking
up at their beauty. I lived through once again all the incidents of the
day in which she had played a part. I heard her sweet voice singing, I
saw the light upon her hair, the glint in her eyes and, once again, I
felt the pressure of her hand. There in the darkness I lifted my own
right hand to my lips and kissed it--for had she not touched it? Then I
fell asleep, but even as I slept she walked, an angel, through my
dreams.
When I awoke my first thought was of her: then, as I looked up at the
sky, I judged that the day was already some hours past the dawn.
Cautiously I separated the fronds of brackens and looked along the moor.
What I saw made me draw back in horror: then, with a beating heart, I
took courage and peeped carefully through once more.
The troopers were upon us, and on my side of the loch there were some
twenty who, scattered about, on horseback, were quartering and
requartering the whole hill-side. I looked warily across to the other
side of the loch. There I could see none. I knew that my safety lay in
absolute stillness. A movement of one of the bracken stems beneath
which I lay might betray me--even my breathing might be heard, and I
knew the uncanny instinct with which a trooper's horse was sometimes
aware of the presence of a fugitive when his rider might be ignorant.
As I listened to the voices of the troopers, and heard the hoofs of
their horses, I felt a sudden love for all the timorous hunted creatures
of the earth. In imagination I saw a hare, with ears laid back, and
eyes dilate with fear, lying clapped in her form.
In my extremity I thought of Mary, and wondered if she knew of my peril.
My lips were dry as sand, my hands were moist, and my heart was beating
loudly, so that I thought the sound of it must be heard by my pursuers.
Would it be a speedy death there on the moorland, or would I be taken to
Wigtown and given a trial? Life had never seemed sweeter than in that
morning hour, and now fate was about to dash the cup of happiness from
my lips. I dared not stir to look again through the brackens, but I
knew from the sound of the voices that some of the troopers were now
close to my hiding-place. With ears alert I listened. Surely that was
Agnew's voice. I heard the jangle of bridle chains, and the creak of
stirrup leathers: I could hear the heavy breathing of the horses--they
were closing in upon me on every side. One minute more and I should be
discovered, and then, death! And I, because I had learned to love, had
grown afraid to die.
Suddenly, clear and shrill, the sound of a flute came from the far side
of the loch. What madness was this? Did not the old man know that the
troopers were upon us? In the very teeth of danger he was calmly
playing a tune that I had heard more than once in the moonlit hours of
the night. O fool! What frenzy had seized him?
The sound reached the troopers. I heard a voice shout, "What the devil
is that?" and the tramp of the horses ceased. The player played on....
There was a sharp word of command; the horses were spurred to the
gallop, and raced to the other side of the loch. As they passed my
hiding-place one of them almost brushed my feet with its hoofs. The
player played on.... There was no tremor in his notes; clear and shrill
they cleft the moorland air. I took courage and peered out. Look where
I might I could see no trooper on my side of the loch, but on the other
side I saw them rapidly converging to the place from which the music
came. The player ceased as suddenly as he had begun, and lying there in
my hiding-place I cursed him for his folly. Never before had I heard
his flute save in the hours of darkness. And then the truth flashed
upon me. It was not madness: it was sacrifice! He had seen my danger,
and to save me, with no thought of self, he had done this thing.
Would they find him? I, with no skill in prayer, found myself praying
fervently that he might escape. Then something within me cried: "You can
save him--show yourself." It was the voice of Mary, and, startled, I
peered through the brackens to see if she could be near, but there was
no one to be seen on my side of the loch and nothing to be heard but the
trailing of the wind along the tops of the heather. "Save him!" cried
the voice again. I sprang to my feet and shouted, but the wind carried
my voice away over my shoulder. Then I heard loud cries on the other
side of the loch and I knew that the troopers had found the Minister....
Could I save him now? ... Was any good purpose to be served by my
surrender, or did it mean simply that two lives would be taken in place
of one? Again I heard the voice: "Too late," it said, "too late," and
it was the voice of Mary, choked with tears.
I threw myself down again, and cursed myself for a coward. I could not
see what was happening on the other side of the loch. For a time there
was the tumult of many voices, and then all was still. I knew what that
meant. Lag or Claver'se or whatever devil incarnate might be at the
head of the troop was putting my friend to the test. Would he take the
oath? I knew that to him allegiance to his God was far more precious
than fealty to an earthly king. I could see the whole scene: he, calm,
in the circle of his accusers, with the firing party charging their
weapons. I could hear the bullying voice of the commander trying to
break his spirit, and then I knew--for I had seen it--that he would be
given five minutes to make his peace with God. Little need for that!
... The crash of muskets tore the silence and I knew that Alexander
Main, hillman, and Saint, had won his crown of glory at the last.
I felt the tears brim in my eyes, and trickle scalding down my cheeks.
Then I was seized with dread once more. Would the troopers be content
with this one victim, or would they come again to my side of the loch
and continue their search? I knew not; I could only wait for whatever
might happen. In a few minutes I should know.
I could hear the sound of the troopers' voices and their laughter, and
peering through the brackens I saw the little cavalcade go back to the
edge of the loch where they gave their horses to drink. In a body they
marched to the end of the loch. If they swung round to the left and
came again to quarter my side of the hill, my fate was sealed. With
hands clenched I waited, watching. I was taut as a bow-string with
suspense. The string snapped: I was free!--for when they reached the
end of the loch, they set their horses to the ascent that led to the top
of the hill, and in half an hour the last of them had disappeared. And
there on my bed of heather beneath the brackens I lay and cried like a
child.
I lay there till the sun went down; then in the gloaming I stole round
to the other side of the loch to look for my friend. I found him at
last. He was lying on his back, with eyes open, looking into the depth
of the sky. There was a smile upon his face, a smile of pride and
unspeakable joy. A great bloody gash, where the murderous bullets had
struck him, lay over his heart. Beside him, face downward, lay an open
book. I picked it up reverently. It was his Bible, and a splash of
blood lay upon the open page across these words: "They shall hunger no
more, neither thirst any more; neither shall the sun light on them, nor
any heat." Gently I closed the book, and sat down beside him. I had
lost a friend; a friend who had shown me the greater love; he was a
Covenanter, and I--God help me!--I had been a persecutor. My heart was
torn by shame and remorse: but in the dim light his quiet pale face was
smiling, as though he was satisfied.
Suddenly a thought struck me. I must give him burial, and quick on the
heels of the thought came another: The dead need no covering but the
kindly earth; would it be sacrilege to strip him of his clothes? He had
no further need of them, while I was in sore straits to get rid of my
uniform. I knelt down and peered into his face. The smile there gave
me courage. In life he had been shrewd and kindly, and I knew that in
death he would understand. So, very gently, I began to strip him. As I
took his coat off something fell from the pocket. It was his flute. I
put it beside his Bible. I have kept both till this day.
Then when I had stripped him, I cast about in my mind for some means to
give him burial. Not far away I knew there was a gash in the hill-side
where once some primeval tarn had been. Reverently I lifted his body
and bore it thither. Gently I laid it down, and standing with bowed
head under the starlit sky, I pronounced over that noble dust all I
could remember of the English burial service. Did ever Covenanter have
a stranger burial? I trow not. Then reverently I happed him over with
heather and brackens and turf which I tore from the hill-side, and
laboured on until the trench was filled and I had built a cairn of
stones over it.
So I left him sleeping there, and, as I turned away, I was overwhelmed
by a sense of loss and loneliness.
I gathered up the clothing which I had taken from his body, and bore it
to the side of the loch. There, from the coat, I washed the stains of
blood, and laid it on the sward to dry.
Occupied as I had been, I was unconscious of the flight of time; but I
was reminded by a sudden access of hunger. A problem faced me, for I
had no food of my own. For days I had been depending on the charity of
my friend; and I did not know where his store lay hidden. In that
wilderness it was well secreted lest any questing bird or four-footed
creature of the moorlands might find it. A sudden apprehension seized
me, and, with its coming, my hunger disappeared. I hurried to the place
where we were wont to take our evening meal together, and then I walked
in the direction which he had usually taken when he went to fetch the
provender. I sought beneath likely tussocks of heather and under the
shadow of boulders and beneath the shelves of overhanging turf, where
some sheep, aforetime, had had a rubbing place. But nowhere could I
find a trace of his store. Baffled, I determined that I would seek my
hiding-place and lie down to sleep for the rest of the night. In the
morning, with the help of the light, perhaps my quest would be rewarded.
So I betook myself to my heather bed, and as I crawled under the
bracken--and laid myself down, I thought how, but for the divine charity
of my dead friend, I should at that hour have been sleeping the sleep of
death.
*CHAPTER XIII*
*PURSUED*
Morning came, clear and bright, and as I stepped out from my
hiding-place I was conscious that the air of the dawn had served to whet
my hunger. I hurried to the other side of the loch and renewed my
search. Crouching down I ferreted in every likely nook and corner, but
found nothing. Was it that there was nothing to find? Was the larder
already empty, or had the troopers discovered it after they had done
their deed of blood, and rifled it of its poor contents? Whatever the
case, my search, repeated over and over again during the course of the
morning--till I knew every blade of grass and bracken-frond on that side
of the loch--revealed nothing. While I searched, my hunger abated; when
I paused I was painfully conscious of it, and then, suddenly, I
remembered the little trickling stream and in a moment I was bending
over it seeking for trout. My search was rewarded and ere long I had
caught enough to make a meal. Hunger made me forget discretion, and I
lit a fire to cook them.
While the stone on which I was to broil my meal was warming in the
flames, I went to the loch side and picked up the garments of my dead
friend. Hastily I divested myself of my uniform, and filling the
pockets, which I had emptied of my possessions, with large stones, I
swam into the middle of the loch and let the heavy burden drop into its
depths. Then I made for the shore, and ran in the sunlight till the air
had dried me, and then aglow and breathless I donned the clothing of the
dead preacher. I felt the flute in the pocket of his coat and drew it
out, looking at it with fond eyes, and placed it to my lips--but as I
was about to blow, I stopped. It would be sacrilege for unclean lips
like mine to call one note from this the plaything and the solace of the
dead saint, so I replaced it in my pocket.
I cooked my fish, and, forgetful of the risk I ran, omitted to
extinguish my fire. I stretched my hands out to enjoy its warmth and
watched the silver grey spirals of smoke coil like ghostly things into
the blue atmosphere.
I sat in a reverie, and after awhile I rose to make another search for
the undiscovered hiding-place of the old man's hoard.
I had wandered afield, and had come to the brow of the hill. When I
rose from my crouching position to stretch myself, I saw a sight that
chilled me. Less than half a mile away was a company of troopers who
were riding at a gallop. I flung myself upon my face and prayed that my
dark figure against the horizon had escaped notice, and then the thought
flashed upon me that they were coming direct to the place where I was,
and the fire which I had left burning was the beacon that had attracted
them. Doubtless they had been continuing their search for me in another
quarter of these mountain fastnesses, and now through my own folly I had
shown them where to find me.
Crouching low, I raced to the loch side. Then, remembering that the
loch was in the cup of the hills, and that until they reached the summit
of the slope they could not see me. I rose erect and raced with all my
speed to the end of the loch and on. Fear lent wings to my feet. To be
safe at all I must put many miles between my pursuers and myself before
I thought of hiding. The country was practically unknown to me, but I
remembered roughly the way we had taken when we went to the
hill-meeting, and I imagined that somewhere in that direction my
greatest safety would lie.
Never stopping to look back, but with panting breath, hot-foot I ran,
leaping over boulders and crashing through the heather, until my limbs
almost refused to respond to my desires; then I flung myself down into a
deep bed of bracken and turned to scan the way I had come. Already I
had travelled far, and, when I looked back, piercing the distance with
eager eyes, I could see no trace of my pursuers.
Though there was no sign of them, I dared not count on safety till I had
placed a much greater distance between us or until night should fall.
So, when I had recovered my breath, I left my shelter and hurried on.
As I went I recognised some of the landmarks I had passed two days
before, and by and by I came to the gorge in the hills where the service
had taken place. As I entered the little amphitheatre my eyes wandered
instinctively to the stone where Mary had sat, but, to my surprise, the
stones were no longer there in orderly array. I looked to where the
pulpit had been, but it was scattered. Then I knew that some of the
worshippers before they left that hallowed spot had, with crafty
foresight, scattered the stones that might have been a witness to some
band of troopers that a "field preaching" had taken place. Wearily I
ascended the slope on one side of the amphitheatre and crouching low
among the heather I scanned the surrounding country. The afternoon was
now far advanced, and the evening shadows were beginning to gather.
Look where I might I could see no sign of my pursuers, and, glad at
heart, I decided that here I should rest for an hour or two and then
continue my flight when the darkness fell. There was something holy
about the place, for she had worshipped here.
My long run had exhausted me, so I crawled into a clump of bracken and
was soon asleep, my last waking thoughts being of Mary, and not of my
danger.
When I woke the moon was high in the heavens. I was conscious of hunger
and thirst, but I had not the wherewithal to appease them: but I hoped
that on my way I might stumble upon some moorland rivulet, or at the
worst a pool of brackish water among the moss-hags. Hunger a man can
bear, but thirst is torture to a fugitive.
Somewhere an owl hooted drearily and the eerie sound in that place of
desolation startled me, alive in every sense to anything unexpected.
As I began my flight once more I was conscious that my limbs were stiff,
but in a few moments, as movement began to warm me, the stiffness
disappeared. On a trackless moor it is ever a hard thing for a man
unacquainted with the country-side to make much speed, and I had to go
warily lest I should stumble, as once before, into some treacherous bog.
The wind had risen and was bringing with it an army of clouds that
swept, a dark host, across the sky. Suddenly the darkness was rent by a
flashing blade of light which shook like a sword of molten metal held by
some giant in the skies, and then, as though a thousand iron doors were
flung against their doorposts, the heavens crashed round me. The wild
peal of thunder rolled through the night air. Caught by every trembling
hill-top, it reverberated and reverberated again till it pulsed into
silence. My ears ached. The lightning and the thunder had brought me to
a standstill, when again the sky was torn by a blaze of fire. Hard on
its heels came another thunderclap and with it a deluge of rain. Every
drop was a missile, stinging my face like a whip-lash. Startled, I made
haste to seek cover from the storm, but I had left the hills behind me
and there was no friendly boulder near at hand.
I turned to look to the hill-side, when, again, a shaft of lightning
like a mighty javelin hurtled earthward from the sky. The whole
hill-side was lit up by its blaze, and I saw its point strike a great
rock of granite that stood on the slope and cleave it in twain. The
darkness closed like a door and ere the following peal hammered upon my
ears I heard the crash of the shattered boulder as headlong it roared
down the hillside.
The air was heavy with the smell of sulphur; the earth was sodden
beneath my feet. My clothes hung heavily upon me and at every step the
water oozed from my shoes.
Remembering a trick of the moor men I dropped on my knees and tore up a
piece of turf and scooped away some of the underlying earth with my
hands. Quickly the water oozed into the bowl from the ground round about
it, and when I had given it a moment to settle, I bent and drank deeply.
Then I rose and hurried on and, in the hope of discovering some shelter
ere long, I broke into a run. It was a foolish thing to do, for save
when a lightning flash lit up the ground I could not see more than a
yard or two ahead.
Suddenly, as though a red-hot knife had struck me, I felt a stab of pain
in my right ankle, and I fell upon my face. The fall winded me, and as
I lay while the pitiless rain beat upon me, I tried to realise what had
happened. I had trodden upon a stone which had betrayed my foot; my
foot had slipped on its edge, and I knew from the pain that I had done
myself an injury.
I tried to gather myself up, but every effort sent a pang to my heart.
Slowly I raised myself upon my hands and knees, and then with a great
effort I lifted myself to my feet, but I found that I could not bear the
pressure of my injured foot upon the ground. I tried to raise it, but
the movement only redoubled my agony, and, bemoaning my fate, I lowered
myself gently to a sitting posture on the wet earth.
*CHAPTER XIV*
*IN THE SLOUGH OF DESPOND*
It was too dark to see the injured part, but from the increasing
pressure on the edge of my shoe I knew my foot was swelling. Soon the
pain of the pressure became intolerable, and with an effort I leaned
over and undid the lace. This gave me some relief, but when I tried to
remove the shoe the pain compelled me to desist. But, taking courage, I
made trial once more and succeeded at last in getting it off. Then I
removed my sock. Very gently I passed a hand over the injured part. I
could feel that it was greatly swollen. My foot lay at an angle which
led me to think that one or other of the bones of my leg had been
broken. My heel dropped backwards, and the inner edge of my foot was
twisted outward. If I kept the limb at rest the pain was tolerable; if
I moved it the agony was more than I could support. The falling rain
upon it was like a cooling balm, and gave me relief, but as I sat
there--sodden, helpless--alone amid the desolation of that vast
moorland, I was overwhelmed by a sense of my misfortune. Twice already
had I escaped from the troopers' hands, and now, unless succour, which
seemed outside the range of hope, should come to me, I was doomed to a
lingering death.
I prayed for the dawn to break, and then I realised that dawn could
bring me no hope, and I ceased to care whether it were light or dark.
But the dawn came nevertheless, and with it a wind that swept the
rain-clouds out of the sky. I tore up some tufts of heather and made a
soft couch upon which to rest my injured limb; then, wet though I was
and cold, I lay down and ere long had fallen asleep. I know not how
long I slept, but when I woke my head was on fire and I was aching in
every limb. My tongue was parched like a piece of leather and I was
tortured by a burning thirst, so that I was fain to pluck the grass and
heather that lay within my reach and suck from them the scanty drops of
moisture that still clung to them. To add to my distress, I was seized
with a violent shivering which shook my whole body and caused my injured
limb to send stabbing darts of pain all through my being. I laid a hand
upon my forehead and found that it was burning hot, and I knew that I
was in the grip of some deadly fever. I called for help in my
extremity, but my voice was weak as a child's and the only reply that
came to me was the cry of a startled whaup. Well, what did it matter if
I had to die? Surely it were better to be freed by a speedy death, than
to lie there a helpless log until I should die of starvation.
I closed my eyes again and drifted into a dreamy state of partial
comfort, from which I was awakened by a violent pain in my right side.
My breathing had become difficult. Every movement of my chest was
torment, and, to add to my miseries, I began to cough. I opened my eyes
and looked into the depths of the sky as though to summon help out of
the infinite; but all I could see was a pair of carrion crows that were
circling above me, waiting, I had little doubt, for the moment when the
breath should leave my body and their foul feasting could begin.
So this was to be the end of it--a week or two, and all that would be
left would be a heap of bones, bleaching in the wind and rain of that
vast moor.
I closed my eyes again, and drifted once more into a pleasant state of
drowsiness, and suddenly I was my own man again, strong and sound in
limb as I had ever been: free from pain, and without a care in the
world. I was walking gaily along a road that stretched before me into
infinite distance. Birds were singing around me and in the sweet air of
the morning there was the scent of hedgerow flowers. Far off, near the
summit of the hill where the road seemed to end, a woman was waiting for
me. She was beckoning to me to make haste, and though I hurried
fleet-foot towards her, she remained as far away as ever. The woman was
Mary. Try as I might, I could not reach her. Then a miracle happened:
she came towards me. A radiant welcome shone in her face: her arms were
outstretched I called to her and held out eager hands towards her: but
she drifted past me, and was gone, and, heavy at heart, I fell back, a
sodden, tortured thing, on the cold wet moors. My eyes opened. The
carrion crows still circled above me: but not for long.
Once more I was on a journey, moving, a formless mass, beneath a leaden
sky with no moon or sun or stars to guide me; myself a part of the
darkness that surrounded me. In this strange world in which I found
myself there were other formless shapes like my own, each drifting
noiselessly and without contact through infinite leagues of space. The
mass that was me was not me. It was separate from me, yet indissolubly
united to me. I was perplexed. Was I the mass or was the mass some
other being? I had no being of my own apart from the mass, and yet the
mass was not me. Where was I?--What was I?--Who was I? I had no pain,
no hands or feet, no torturing thirst, no fever-racked body. Was I
disembodied? If so, what was I now? In agony of mind, I, who had no
mind, struggled to puzzle the problem out; and then, suddenly, the grey
mass that had perplexed me rolled from my sight, and I found myself once
more lying upon the moor in pain, alone. The sky above me was sprinkled
with stars; night had come again: the day had brought me no succour.
If I lay here any longer, surely the troopers would find me. I must up
and on. It seemed to me that a great hand came out of the sky and
blotted out my pain as someone might blot out an error upon a child's
slate. I was strong again. I sprang to my feet. My limb was sound once
more. I ran across the moor like a hind let loose and in the darkness I
stepped over a precipice and fell unendingly down. The minutes passed,
and I saw them gather themselves into little heaps of hours that stood
like cairns of stone on the top of the precipice. The hours piled
themselves into days and the days into weeks, till the top of the
precipice was covered with stones, and still I was falling through
unending space. Some time--I know not when--I must have come to the
bottom of the precipice. I felt no crash, but the heaped-up cairns of
the minutes and hours and days disappeared from my sight, and I ceased
to know anything. I cannot tell how long this deep oblivion lasted.
Once only did I wake from it partially. I felt a twinge of pain as
though someone had moved me, and then all was dark again.
*CHAPTER XV*
*IN THE HAVEN OF DALDOWIE*
A man may go to the very gate of death without knowing that he has stood
within its shadow till he returns once more to the sunshine of life. I
know not how long I lay, an unconscious mass, at the foot of the dream
precipice of my delirium, but an hour came when I opened my eyes again.
I opened them slowly, for even to lift my lids was an effort, and I
looked above me to see if the carrion crows were still watching me.
Instead I saw a low thatched roof, and in amazement I let my eyes wander
to every side. I was lying on a soft mattress laid on a garret floor.
My head was pillowed on a snowy pillow of down. Beside my couch stood a
three-legged stool and on it there was a bowl of flowers. I stretched
out a weak hand to take one. I picked up a buttercup that flaunted its
proud gold before me, and I pressed it to my lips. I lay in a reverie
and tried to gather together all I could remember of the past. I
recollected my flight from the troopers, the thunderstorm and the rain,
and then I remembered my injured limb. I tried to move it and found
that it was firmly bound. I was too weak to raise myself and turn down
the bedclothes to examine it, but there was further food for thought in
the fact that my injury had been cared for.
Where was I?--and who had brought me here and nursed me back to life
again?
Perplexed I could find no light to guide me, and weary with fruitless
thoughts I fell asleep.
When I woke up again my eyes rested upon a woman who was just beginning
to appear through a trap-door in the floor. She entered the garret,
bearing a cup whose contents gave off a generous odour. She came to my
bedside and, carefully removing the flowers from the stool, sat down
upon it, and looked at me. My wide-awake eyes met her astonished gaze.
"Thank God," she said, "ye're better. Ye've been queer in the heid for
mair than a fortnicht, and me and Andra' had lang syne gi'en ye up."
She dropped on her knees beside me and, slipping her left arm gently
under my pillow, raised me and put the cup to my lips.
"Here," she said, "drink some o' this."
I drank a long draught, and never have I tasted anything with savour so
exquisite.
All too soon the cup was empty and the warmth of its contents sent a
glow through my wasted body. I was about to ask where I was and how I
had come there, when I remembered that I had another duty to perform.
So, in a voice that shook from weakness and emotion, I said:
"I know not who you are, but you have saved my life, and I would thank
you."
"Wheesht," she said. "You are far ower weak to talk yet. When you have
had a guid nicht's sleep and a wee drap mair nourishment, it will be
time enough. Haud yer wheesht the noo like a guid bairn and gang to
sleep," and she drew the coverlet up round my neck and tucked it about
me. Some old memory buried in the margin of my consciousness stirred
within me. Just so had my mother tucked me to sleep many a time and oft,
when I was a little lad, and the memory brought the tears to my eyes. I
said nothing, for the will of the woman was stronger than mine at the
moment, and I must needs obey it. I watched her place the bowl of
flowers upon the stool: then, after smoothing my pillow, she went to the
trap-door, passed through it and disappeared.
For a time I lay looking up at the straw roof. My eyes followed the
black rafters that supported it, and I tried to count the knots in the
beams: but the light which trickled through the window had begun to
fade, and as I tried to count I fell asleep.
When I woke again it was dark, but a faint beam from the moon made a
pool of silver on the coverlet that lay over me. I heard a voice in the
room beneath me. I listened eagerly, but could not distinguish any
words, and as I listened it dawned upon me that the voice was that of
someone reading aloud. Then there was a pause: and in the silence that
followed I heard a grating sound as though a chair were pushed a little,
over a sandstone floor, and again the voice spoke. Then I knew that, in
the kitchen beneath me the people under whose roof I rested were
worshipping their God. I, a trooper and deserter, had been succoured by
some of the moorland folk, and had found refuge in a Covenanter's
cottage!
I lay and thought long of all that I owed to these hunted hill-folk.
Twice had I, one of their persecutors, been succoured from death through
their charity.
Some time soon after dawn I was wakened by sounds in the room beneath
me. I heard a creak as though a hinge were moved, and the clank of a
chain, and I knew that the good wife had swung her porridge-pot over the
fire and was preparing breakfast for her family. The delicious aroma of
slow-cooked porridge began to assail my nostrils and I was conscious
that I was hungry.
I wondered if by any chance I should be forgotten; then I banished the
uncharitable thought. By and by I heard the sound of footsteps in the
kitchen and then a confused murmur of voices. I knew that the family
had gathered to break their fast, and I waited with all the patience I
could command. The minutes passed slowly and every moment my hunger
grew more and more intolerable: but at last the time of waiting was
over. I heard footsteps ascending the ladder to my garret. The
trap-door was thrown open, the top of a head appeared, a hand reached up
and placed a bowl on the floor, and the head disappeared once more.
Then again I heard footsteps ascending the ladder, and this time the
woman came into the room bearing a second bowl. She picked up the one
she had laid upon the floor and came to my bedside.
"Ye've sleepit weel?" she said, inquiry in her voice. "Ye're lookin'
somethin' like a man this mornin'. See, I ha'e brocht you your
breakfast."
She laid her burden down, and clearing the bowl of flowers from the
stool, placed a hand adroitly behind my pillow and propped me up. For a
moment the room spun round me. Then she placed the bowl of porridge in
my lap and poured a stream of milk over it, saying: "Can ye feed
yersel', or maun I feed ye like a bairn?" She gave me a horn spoon, and
with a shaky hand I fed myself. She sat watching me, but did not speak
again till I had finished my meal.
"That's better," she said. "You'll soon be yersel' again. It's the
prood woman I am. I never yet knew a man sae ill as you ha'e been pu'
through. Man, but for the grace o' God and our Mary, the craws on the
moor would ha'e picked yer banes white long ere noo."
Startled, I looked at her. She had said "Mary." Could it be that this
Mary was the Mary of my dreams? I ventured to speak.
"I cannot thank you enough for all you have done for me. But I do not
know where I am nor how I came here. I remember nothing since I lay
upon the moor, waiting for death."
"Weel," she said, "to make a long story short, ye're in the laft o'
Andrew Paterson's fairm-hoose at Daldowie. Mary fand ye lyin' on the
moor, in a kin' o' stupor. She got an awfu' fricht, puir lassie. First
she thocht ye micht be ane o' the hill-fowk, and then she thocht ye had
a kent face, and lookin' again, she minded that she had seen ye wi' the
meenister at the field-meeting, the Sabbath afore. She saw ye were gey
near deid, but she jaloused ye werena' quite, because ye kept muttering
tae yoursel'. So she raced hame like a hare and wadna' rest till she
had ta'en her faither oot to fin' ye. They carried ye here on the
tail-board o' a cairt, and that's three weeks sin'; and here ye lie and
here ye'll bide till ye're a weel man aince mair."
As the full meaning of her words dawned upon me, I was uplifted with
joy. Mary had found me! She had known me! She had cared enough for me
to think that I was worth saving! Her big heart had pitied my
necessity, and to her I owed my life! A sudden access of strength ran
through my being. The blood coursed in my veins; I felt it pulse in my
temples. It must have brought a glow to my cheeks, for the woman said:
"Ye're better--a lot better the day. The parritch has put a bit o'
colour in your cheeks."
I found my tongue. "Will you," I said, "please thank your husband and
your daughter"--I had fain said Mary with my lips: I said it in my
heart--"for what they have done for me. Later, I hope to thank them
myself."
"Oh, aye," she said, "ye'll be seein' them later on when ye're better.
But I'll tell them. Meantime, maybe the nicht, when his work's dune, the
guid-man'll be comin' up to see ye himsel'. He's got a wheen questions
he wants to ask ye. For instance, we're sairly troubled because you
were wearin' the meenister's claes when Mary found ye, and in ane o'
your pockets ye had the meenister's Bible. And though ane or twa o' the
hill-fowk hae been up to look for the guid man in his hiding-place,
naebody has seen him and we're mair than a wee troubled. We ken ye were
a trooper, and though the meenister vouched for ye himsel' at the
meeting, Andra says that ye canna make a blackfaced tup into a white ane
by clippin' its 'oo', and we hope ye haena dune the guid man a mischief.
To tell ye the truth, when we got ye here and found the meenister's
claes on ye, my guid-man was for puttin' ye oot on the moor again and
leavin' ye to dee. But Mary pleaded for ye, and I minded my aan lad, so
we hid ye here and nursed ye."
She said no more, and before I could explain she had descended the
ladder and shut the trap-door.
The day passed rapidly; I slept and woke and slept and woke again. The
good woman came to me more than once with food, but she did not talk to
me again nor would she let me talk to her.
"The morn is the Sabbath day. I ha'e nae doot Andra' will come up to
see ye sometime, and ye can tell him your story then." That was her
good night to me, and when she had descended I heard again, as on the
previous evening, the sound of these devout folk at their evening
prayer.
Then all was silent and I slept.
*CHAPTER XVI*
*ANDREW PATERSON, HILL-MAN*
The shrill crowing of a cock woke me, just as the first rays of the sun
were stealing through the skylight. I lay adrowse, half sleeping, half
awake, listening for the first sound of the house coming to life. The
cock sounded his bugle again. Somewhere a hen cackled, and then all was
still.
My eyes wandered round the garret. A mouse had stolen out of some
cranny and was examining the room. He seemed unaware of my presence,
for he sat solemnly in the middle of the floor with his tail curved like
a sickle and proceeded to preen himself, till some unwitting movement of
mine startled him and he scampered to his hole.
Slowly the minutes passed, then I heard movements in the kitchen beneath
me. I knew that the day might be a difficult one for me, for sometime
during its course I had to explain to the master of the house how I came
to be disguised in the garb of the minister. My tale was a plain enough
one, and I thought it would not be hard to clear myself of any suspicion
of having had a hand in his death; but I could not be sure. Kind though
my succourers had been, I knew that they were likely to be distrustful
of one who had once been a trooper. The minister had been their friend,
and it was but natural that they should feel his death keenly and be all
too ready to suspect me of complicity in bringing it about. I
determined to tell the tale simply, and I trusted that my words would
carry conviction. If not, what then? I knew the fanatic spirit with
which the hill-folk were sometimes charged. Would the master of the
house, in his wrath, lay hands upon me and wring the life from my body?
The evil, uncharitable thought was crushed down. They had shown me such
love in the hours of my weakness that they were hardly likely to
sacrifice me to their suspicions now.
As I pondered, the trap-door was raised, and, bearing my breakfast, the
master of the house entered the garret. "Hoo are ye the day?" he asked.
"Better, I thank you, much better;--I owe my life to you and yours;--I
shall never be able to repay you."
He set the food upon the stool before he answered. "Ye're gey gleg wi'
your tongue. Naebody was talkin' aboot payin'. Haud your wheesht, and
sup your parritch. I jalouse ye need them. Later on I'll be comin' up
for a crack. There's a wheen things that are no' clear in my min'. The
thing lies here: hoo did ye come by the minister's claes and his Bible?"
and he looked at me with a steely glance, that, had I not been
guiltless, would have covered me with confusion.
"I am ready," I said, "to tell you the whole story as soon as you are
ready to listen."
"Weel," he answered, "I'm comin' back sune," and he went to the
trap-door and descended, closing it behind him.
I made a hearty meal and was pleased to discover my strength was coming
back to me. When I had finished I must have dropped into a sleep, from
which I was wakened by hearing footsteps in the room once more. The man
had returned, and under his arm he was carrying a bundle of heather,
while in his hand there was a mass of wool. He knelt beside my bed and,
turning up the blankets, said:
"Afore we begin to talk I think I'd better see aboot this leg o' yours."
He undid the bandages, and looking down I saw that beneath them the
ankle had been carefully padded with wool and heather. I knew now the
purpose of the things he had brought with him, for he stripped off the
pad with which the ankle was surrounded and began to make a fresh one.
Apparently he had some knowledge of the healing art. He ran his fingers
gently over the joint and then bade me try to move the foot. I found
that movement was difficult, but that though it was painful it did not
provoke such suffering as that which I remembered having experienced
upon the moor.
"It's daein' fine," he said. "It was a bad break, but by and by ye'll
be able to walk again, though I fear ye'll aye be a lamiter. But Jacob
himsel'--a better man than you--hirpled for the maist pairt o' his
life."
As he talked he was binding my foot again, and when he had finished, it
felt most comfortable.
"And noo," he said, "let me hear what ye ha'e to say for yersel'. The
facts are black against ye. We fand you on the moor in the meenister's
claes: ye had the guid man's Bible in your pocket: when last he was seen
you were in his company: and nocht has been heard o' him frae that day
to this. What say ye?" and he looked at me piercingly.
Without more ado I told him how the brave old saint had given his life
that mine might be saved, and how I had buried his body in the silence
of the hills, taking his clothes to disguise myself and bringing away
his Bible as a precious possession.
As I talked I watched the changing emotions chase each other across his
face. At first his eyes were watchful with suspicion, but as I
continued he seemed thrilled with a tensity of expectation, and when I
told him how the end had come with the rattle of muskets I saw his
strong, gnarled hands clench, and, through his tightened lips, he
muttered, "The black deevils," and then the tears stole down his
weather-beaten cheeks.
When I had finished there was a silence which at last he broke:
"A man o' God, a saint if ever there was ane. We'll miss him sairly here
I'm thinkin', but they will be glad to ha'e him on the other side."
Then he rose from the stool and gripping my right hand, crushed it in
his own. "I believe you, my lad, I believe you, and if Alexander Main
counted you worthy to die for, Andrew Paterson o' Daldowie may count you
worthy o' a share of his kail and saut. I maun gang and tell the wife;
her and Mary are anxious to ken the truth": and he made for the
trap-door and began to go down. But just before his head disappeared he
turned and called: "Maybe I'll come back the day to see ye again, but if
I dinna', the wife'll be up to look after ye, and if I'm spared I'll be
up masel' the morn. This is nae day to talk aboot the dambrod. I'll
speir ye aboot it some ither time."
*CHAPTER XVII*
*AN ADOPTED SON*
It is needless to trace day by day the events of the next fortnight.
Each morning found me with increasing strength. The good wife of the
house was continually solicitous for my welfare, and had I been son of
hers she could not have bestowed more care upon me. She took a pride in
every sign of returning strength. Daily she brought me shreds of family
gossip; news of the crops; news of the cattle; told me, with housewifely
pride, how many chickens had come from her last sitting of eggs.
More than once, in our talk, I tried to turn the conversation to Mary;
but never with much success. Shyness kept me from advances too direct.
Sometimes she would tell me of the hill-men; and once she told me, with
pride flashing in her eyes, of her son.
"He died," she said, "at Drumclog. It was a short, sharp fecht, and the
dragoons reeled and fled before the Bonnets o' Blue. My laddie was sair
wounded, and died in the arms o' guid Maister Main. His last words were:
'Tell my mither no' to greet. It's been a graun' fecht, and oor side's
winnin'.'" There were no tears in her eyes as she told me the tale, but
when she had finished she laid a hand upon my head and gently stroked my
hair. "He was sic' anither as you, when he fell," and she turned and
left me. Of an evening the farmer would sometimes come up, bringing
with him a dambrod, and many a well-fought game we had together. He
played skilfully and usually won, which gave him considerable
satisfaction.
"Ye canna' beat Daldowie on the dambrod," he would say, with a twinkle
in his eyes. "Scotland owes little enough to Mary Stuart, the Jezebel,
but she or some o' her following brocht this game wi' them, and that is
something they'll be able to say for themselves on the Judgment Day.
They'll mak' a puir enough show that day, or I'm mistaken, but the
dambrod will coont on their side."
When we had played for a week, and Saturday night came, he brought up a
slate with a record of the score.
"It's like this, ye see," he said. "We've played a score and half o'
games. I ha'e won a score and seven, and you won three--which ye
shouldna' ha'e done ava' if I had opened richt and no foozled some o'
the moves wi' my king. So ye're weel bate, and it's as weel for you
that I dinna' believe in playin' for money, or it is a ruined lad ye'd
be the nicht."
There was a gleam of satisfaction in his grey eyes, and I could see that
to have beaten me so soundly had given him great pleasure.
"We'll no play the nicht; it's gettin' ower near the Sabbath," he
continued, "but I'll bate ye even better next week."
I should have been lacking in gratitude if I had not begun to develop a
warm affection for my friends. Simple folks, their joys were simple
ones, but they were both filled with the zest of life; and in spite of
the daily peril in which they lived, sunshine, rather than clouds,
seemed to overhang their dwelling.
There came a day when, after examining my ankle with care, the old man
said: "I think we micht try to get ye on your legs," and he raised me in
his arms and set me on my feet. The garret spun round me, and the floor
rose like the billows of the sea and would have swept me down had it not
been for his strong arm.
"Steady lad, steady," he said. "Ye'll fin' your feet in a wee. Just
shut your een for a minute and then open them again. I'll haud ye fast;
dinna' be feart!"
I did as he bade me and found that the floor had become steady again;
then, supported by his arm, I essayed to walk. To my joy I discovered
that, though the effort cost me pain, I was able to walk from one end of
the room to the other. The old man was delighted.
"Jean," he cried, "come awa' up to the laft. Bryden can walk," and I saw
the trap-door rise to admit her.
She stood with her hands on her hips: "It bates a'," she said. "The
nicht ye cam' I never thocht to see you on your legs again, but ha'e a
care, Andra, the lad's weak yet; help him back intil his bed and I'll
fetch him a bowl o' sheep's-heid broth for his supper."
And when I was comfortably settled once more, she was as good as her
word.
Next day she brought me a strong ash stick, and with its help and the
aid of her arm I was able to walk round the loft in some comfort.
Day by day my strength grew and I began to look forward to the hour when
I should be able to join my friends in the kitchen below, when I hoped
to see Mary face to face. It may have been nothing more than a
coincidence--though, as I listened eagerly, I flattered myself it might
be for joy that I was so far recovered--that on the night I first began
to walk again, I heard Mary singing a song.
As the hour drew nearer when I should meet her, I began to be covered
with confusion. How would she receive me?
At last the great day came. In the late afternoon Andrew brought me a
suit of clothes.
"The wife sent ye them," he said. "She thocht they were nearer your
size than the meenister's," and he laid them on the stool beside my bed
and turned his back upon me: then brushing a sleeve across his eyes, he
said: "I'm thinkin' it cost Jean a lot to tak' them oot o' the drawer;
ye see they were Dauvit's."
Had I needed any proof of the love they bore me, I had it now. I was to
enter the circle round their hearth clad in the garments of their dead
son. I had learned enough of the quiet reserve of these hill-folks to
know that any words of mine would have been unseemly, so I held my
peace, and with the help of the good man put the garments on. Then
leaning on my stick and aided by his strong arm I walked to the
trap-door. Slowly I made my way down the ladder, guided at every step by
Andrew who had preceded me, and by and by my feet touched the flagged
floor of the kitchen. The old woman hurried to my side, and between
them they guided me to a large rush-bottomed chair set in the ingle-nook
beside the fire.
"Nae sae bad, nae sae bad," said the good wife. She looked at me when I
was seated and with a sudden "Eh, my!" she turned and shoo'd with her
apron a hen that had wandered into the kitchen.
Eagerly I looked round, but there was no sign of Mary. The peat smoke
which circled in acrid coils round the room stung my eyes and blurred my
vision, but I was able to take note of the things around me. The kitchen
was sparsely furnished and scrupulously clean. Against one wall stood a
dresser with a row of china bowls, and above them a number of pewter
plates. A "wag-at-the-wa'" ticked in a corner near. A settle stood on
the other side of the peat fire from that on which I was seated, and a
table, with well-scoured top, occupied the middle of the floor.
The good man having satisfied himself that I was all right, went out,
and his wife, taking a bowl from the dresser, filled it with water. I
watched her as she proceeded with her baking. As she busied herself she
talked briskly.
"Ye ken," she said, "you ha'e been under this roof weel ower a month,
and yet ye've never tellt us a word aboot yersel', mair than we fand
oot. Hae ye got a mither o' your ain, and hoo did you, an Englishman,
fin' yer way to this pairt o' the country? Weel I ken that, ever since
Scotland gi'ed ye a king, Scotsmen ha'e been fond o' crossin' the
border, but I never heard tell o' an Englishman afore that left his ain
country to come North, unless," she added, with a twinkle in her eye,
"he cam' as a prisoner."
It was an invitation to unbosom myself, of which I was ready enough to
avail me, and I told her some of my story. "So ye're College bred," she
said. "That accounts for your nice ceevility.
"They tell me," she continued, "that England's a terrible rich country,
that the soil is far kindlier than it is up here and that farmer bodies
haena' sic' a struggle as we ha'e in Scotland." She did not wait for my
reply, but added: "I am thinkin' maybe that is why, as I ha'e heard, the
English ha'e na' muckle backbane, and are readier to listen to sic'
trash as the Divine Richt o' Kings."
I tried to explain to her that it was the strain of monarchs whom we had
imported from Scotland who laid most stress upon this right, but, as I
talked, a shadow filled the doorway, and, looking up, I saw Mary. With
a struggle I raised myself to my feet.
"Sit doon, sit doon," said the good-wife, "it's only oor Mary."
"You forget," I answered, "it is to your daughter, who found me, that I
owe my life. By rights I should kneel at her feet."
"Hear to him! If it hadna' been for Mary's mither and the wey she
looked efter ye and fed ye wi' chicken soup and sheep's-heid broth,
forby parritch and buttermilk and guid brose made by her ain hand, ye
wadna' be sittin' there!"
"Wheesht, mither, wheesht," said Mary: and with a smile in her eyes that
made me think of the stars of the morning in a rose tinged sky, she held
out both her hands to me. I took them and bent to kiss them, but they
were hastily withdrawn, and looking up I saw a flush upon her cheeks,
but I did not read resentment in her eyes.
"Ha'e ye fetched in the kye, Mary?" asked her mother.
"Aye," she replied, "they're a' in their stalls."
Indeed, one could hear the rattle of chains and the moving of hoofs on
the other side of the wall.
"Weel, ye'd better start the milkin'. I'll be oot in a wee to help ye,"
and without a word more Mary took her departure. My ears were all
alert, and, in a moment, I heard her slapping the flank of a cow. Then
her stool grated on the cobbles, and I caught the musical tinkle of the
milk as it was drawn into the pail; and to my delight Mary began to
sing.
I listened eagerly. She was singing a love song! The old woman heard
her too, for she said: "Dae ye ken ocht aboot kye?" I hastened to tell
her that I knew nothing. "Weel," she said, "it's a queer thing, but ye
can aye get mair milk frae a coo if ye sing at the milkin'. If ye sing
a nice bricht tune ye'll get twa or three mair gills than if ye dinna
sing ava. Noo, that's Meg she's milkin', and Meg has got near as muckle
sense as a human being. On Sabbath, ye ken, it would be a terrible sin
to sing a sang to the coo when ye're milkin' her, so I've got to fa'
back on the psalms. But ye've got to be carefu'. For instance, if ye
sang the 'Auld Hundred' to Meg, ye wadna' get near sae muckle milk,
because it's solemn-like, than ye wad if ye sang her a psalm that runs
to the tune o' 'French.' Forby, I aince had a servant-lass that sang a
paraphrase when she was milkin' Meg, and the puir cratur' was that upset
that she was milked dry before the luggy was a quarter filled, and when
I went masel' to strip her, she put her fit in the pail--a thing I've
never kent her dae afore or since."
I laughed.
"Ay," she continued, "an' waur than that, the lass poured the luggy that
she had drawn frae Meg among the other milk, and the whole lot turned.
Sic' wastry I never kent afore, and ye may be sure that nae paraphrase
has ever been sung in my byre since. The guid man was that upset--no'
wi' the loss o' the milk--but at the thocht that a paraphrase had been
sung in his byre to his coo on the Sabbath day that on the Monday he
gi'ed the wench notice."
"I should have thought," I said, "that Mary's voice would persuade the
milk from the most reluctant cow."
"I dinna' ken aboot that," she answered: "She's no as guid a milker as
her mother, and though my voice is timmer noo I'll guarantee to get mair
milk at a milkin' than ever Mary'll fetch ben the hoose."
I would fain have continued the conversation, but the baking was over,
and the good woman left to join her daughter. Mary still sang on and I
sat in rapture, my heart aglow.
*CHAPTER XVIII*
*THE WISDOM OF A WOMAN*
I saw no more of Mary that day, for ere the milking was over Andrew
returned from the fields and after studying me for a moment said: "I
think it's time for your bed." Whereat he helped me carefully up the
ladder, and left me to disrobe myself. That night, when the moon came
out and filled my room with a glory that was not of this earth, I lay
and dreamed of Mary, and through the silence of my dream I could hear
once again the witching notes of her song.
Day after day I was gently assisted down the ladder, and each day I
spent a longer time sitting by the peat fire. Most often my only
companion in the kitchen was the good wife, and between us an intimate
understandi
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