Complete Fictional Works of John Buchan (Illustrated), page 34
The storms of the day before had passed and a light frost set in which made the air clear and sharp and the countryside plain even to the distances. We were passing under the great mass of Tintock — a high, hump-backed hill which rises sheer from the level land and stands like a mighty sentinel o’er the upper Clyde valley. We travelled slow, for the wounded were not fit to bear much speed, and many of the folk walked to sufFer the horses to be yoked to the carts. After a little I espied the captain walking at the side, with his shoulder and cheeks bandaged, but as erect and haughty as ever. Seeing that I was awake, he came over beside me and asked very kindly after my health. His tenderness toward me was as great as if I had been his son or nearest blood-kin. When I told him that I was well and would get down and walk beside him, he said that that would be a most unbecoming thing and would never do, but that he would have a horse brought me from the back. So a horse was brought, an excellent black, with white on its fetlocks, and I mounted; and despite some little stiffness, found it much to my liking.
He told of the end of the battle and all the details of its course. He was in the highest spirits, for though his folk were sore wounded, they had yet beaten their foes and sent them off in a worse plight than themselves. Above all he was full of a childish vanity in his own prowess. “Saw you that muckle bullion, Kennedy, Master Burnet — I gied him some gey licks, but I never could win near eneuch to him for his muckle airm. You grippit him weel and he’ll no bother us main His ain folk ‘ll keep quiet eneuch aboot the affair, I’ll warrant, so we may look to hear naething mair aboot it. I’m thinkin’, tae, that the Yerl ‘ll no seek to come back my gate again. I tried to mak him fecht like a gentleman, but faith, he wadna dae’t. He just keepit cuttin’ at my shanks till I was fair wild, and telled some o’ our ain folk to tak the legs frae the body wi’ a scythe-stick. I haena seen a fecht like it since that at the Romanno Brig fifteen years syne, atween the Faas and the Shawes, when they were gaun frae Haddington to Harestane. Our folk wad hae been in’t if they hadna come’t up ower late and juist seen the end o’t.”
“And will you have no farther trouble about the matter?” I asked. “If the justice gets word of it will you not suffer?”
“Na, na,” he said, with conviction, “nae fear. Thae things dinna come to the lugs o’ the law. We didna dae ony hairm except to oorsels, and there’s nane o’ us killed save Kennedy whae dee’d a naitural death, so there can be nae word aboot that. Forbye, how’s the law to grip us?” And he turned on me a face full of roguish mirth which looked oddly between the bandages. “If they heard we were at Biggar Moss yae day and cam after us, afore the morn we wad be in the Douglas Muirs or the Ettrick Hills. We’re kittle cattle to fash wi’. We gang slow for ordinar, but when aucht presses we can flee like a flock o’ stirlins.”
“Then where are you going?” I asked.
“Where, but to Lanerick,” he said. “There’s a fair comes on there Monday three days, and the muir is grand beddin’. I didna ask your will on the maitter, for I kenned a’ places the noo were muckle the same to ye, provided they were safe and no ower far away frae the wast country.”
“That’s true enough,” I said, thinking sadly of Marjory and my miserable plight. I had not told Baillie anything of my story, for I did not care to commit it to such ears. But I was glad that we travelled in this airt, for I had still in my heart a wild hope that by some fortunate chance I should be in time to save my love.
About midday we came to Lanark Moor, where the baggage and shelties, as well as most of the women and children, were left behind to find an encampment. As for us, we pushed on to the town to see what was doing and hear some news of the countryside. I had no fear of detection, for in my new guise I passed for the veriest gipsy in the land. I was still clothed in my suit of crimson, but the fight had made it torn in many places, and all smirched with mire and bog-water. Also, my face was not only stained with the captain’s dye, but the storms and dust of the encounter had deepened its colour to the likeness of an Ethiop. I had not a rag left of gentility, save maybe the sword which still swung at my side. In this fashion I rode by Baillie’s elbow in a mood neither glad nor sad, but sunk in a sort of dogged carelessness. The entrance to the town was down a steep path from the moor, for the place is built above the gorge of Clyde, yet something lower than the surrounding moorlands. Far on all sides I had a view of the wide landscape, from the rugged high hills of Tweeddale and the upper Clyde to the lowlands in the west which stretch to Glasgow and the sea.
But when we came to the town there was a great to-do, men running about briskly and talking to one another, old women and young gossiping at house and close doors, and the upper windows filled with heads. There was a curious, anxious hum throughout the air, as if some great news had come or was coming ere long. I forgot for a moment my position and leaned from the saddle to ask the cause of a man who stood talking to a woman at the causeway side. He looked at me rudely. “What for d’ye want to ken, ye black-faced tinkler — D’ye think it’ll matter muckle to you what king there is when you’re hangit?” But the woman was more gracious and deigned to give me some sort of answer. “There’s word o’ news,” she said. “We kenna yet what it is, and some think aen thing and some anither, but a’ are agreed that it’ll make a gey stramash i’ the land. A man cam ridin’ here an hour syne and has been closeted wi’ the provost ever since. Honest man, his heid ‘ll be fair turned if there’s onything wrang, for he’s better at sellin’ tatties than reddin’ the disorders o’ the state.” And then the man by her side bade her hold her peace, and I rode on without hearing more.
By and by we came to the market-place where stands the ancient cross of Lanerick, whereat all proclamations are made for the Westlands. Straight down from it one looks on the steep braes of Kirkfieldbank and the bridge which the Romans built over the river; and even there the murmur of the great falls in Clyde comes to a man’s ear. The place was thronged with people standing in excited groups, and the expression on each face was one of expectancy. Folk had come in from the country round as on some errand of enquiry, and the coats of a few of the soldiery were to be discerned among the rest. But I had no fear of them, for they were of the lowlands regiment, and had no knowledge of me. The sight of us, and of myself in especial, for Baillie had changed his garb, caused some little stir in the crowd and many inquisitive looks.
The captain came up to me. “There’s dooms little to be dune here,” he cried; “ the place is in sic a fever, I canna think what’s gaun to happen. We may as weel gang back to the muirs and wait till things quiet doun.”
“I know not either,” said I, and yet all the time I knew I was lying, for I had some faint guess at the approach of great tidings, and my heart was beating wildly.
Suddenly the crowd parted at the farther end and a man on a wearied grey horse rode up toward the cross. He held a bundle of papers in his hand, and his face was red with hurry and excitement. “News,” he cried hoarsely, “great news, the greatest and the best that the land has heard for many a day.” And as the people surged round in a mighty press he waved them back and dismounted from his horse. Then slowly and painfully he ascended the steps of the cross and leaned for a second against the shaft to regain his breath. Then he stood forward and cried out in a loud voice that all in the market-place might hear. “I have ridden post-haste from Edinbro’ with the word, for It came only this morn. James Stewart has fled from the throne, and William of Orange has landed in the South and is on his way to London. The bloody house has fallen and the troubling of Israel is at an end.”
At that word there went through the people a sound which I shall never forget as long as I live — the sigh of gratitude for a great deliverance. It was like a passing of a wind through a forest, and more terrible to hear than all the alarums of war. And then there followed a mighty shout, so loud and long that the roofs trembled, and men tossed bonnets in air and cried aloud and wept and ran hither and thither like madmen. At last the black cloud of the persecution had lifted from their land, and they were free to go and tell their kinsmen in hiding that all danger was gone for ever.
As for myself, what shall I say — My first feeling was one of utter joy. Once more I was free to go whither I liked, and call my lands my own. Now I could overmaster my cousin and set out to the saving of my lass. Indeed I, who am a king’s man through and through, and who sorrowed in after days for this very event, am ashamed to say that my only feeling at the moment was one of irrepressible gladness. No one, who has not for many months been under the shadow of death, can tell the blessedness of the release. But even as I joyed, I thought of Marjory, and the thought recalled me to my duty.
“Have you a fast horse?” I said to the captain.
He looked at me in amazement, for the tidings were nothing to him, and in my face he must have read something of my tale.
“You mean?” he said.
“Yes, yes,” said I; “it means that I am now safe, and free to save another. I must be off hot-foot. Will you lend me a horse?”
“Take mine,” said he, “it’s at your service, and take my guidwill wi’ ye.” And he dismounted and held out his hand,
I mounted and took his in one parting grip. “God bless you, William Baillie, for an honest man and a gentleman,” and I was off without another word.
It must have been a strange thing for the people of Lanark to see me on that day, as they ran hither and thither to tell the good tidings. For, in all my savage finery, I dashed up the narrow street, scattering folk to the right and left like ducks from a pond, and paying no heed to a hundred angry threats which rang out behind me. In a little I had gained the moor, and set my face for Douglasdale and my lady. Smitwood was but ten miles away and the path to it easy. In a short hour I should be there, and then — ah, then, it could not be otherwise, it must be, that Marjory should be there to greet me, and be the first to hear my brave news.
I passed over the road I had come, and had no time to reflect on the difference in my condition from two hours agone, when abject and miserable I had plodded along it. Now all my head was in a whirl, and my heart in a storm of throbbing. The horse’s motion was too slow to keep pace with my thoughts and my desires; and I found me posting on ahead of myself, eager to be at my goal. In such wild fashion I rode over the low haughlands of Clyde, and forded the river at a deep place where it flowed still and treacherous among reeds, never heeding, but swimming my horse across, though I had enough to do to land on the other side. Then on through the benty moorlands of Douglas-side and past the great wood of the Douglas Castle. My whole nature was centred in one great desire of meeting, and yet even in my longing I had a deadly suspicion that all might not be well — that I had come too late.
Then I saw the trees and the old house of Smitwood lying solemn among its meadows. I quickened my horse to fresh exertion. Like a whirlwind he went up the avenue, making the soft turf fly beneath his heels. Then with a start I drew him up at the door and cried loudly for admittance.
Master Veitch came out with a startled face and looked upon me with surprise.
“Is Marjory within?” I cried, “Marjory? Quick, tell me!”
“Marjory,” he replied, and fell back with a white face. “Do you seek Marjory? She left here two days agone to go to you, when you sent for her. Your servant Nicol went after her.”
“O my God,” I cried, “I am too late;” and I leaned against my horse in despair.
BOOK IV. — THE WESTLANDS
I. — I HEAR NO GOOD IN THE INN AT THE FORDS o’ CLYDE
FOR A SECOND I was so filled with despair at Master Veitch’s news that my mind was the veriest blank and I could get no thought save that bitterest of all — that my lady was gone. But with a great effort I braced myself to action.
“And what of my servant Nicol?” I asked, and waited breathlessly for the answer.
“Oh, he was away on the hills seeking ye, Master Burnet. When he got no word Marjory was in sic a terror that nothing would suffice her but that he maun off to Tweeddale and seek every heather-buss for word of ye. He hadna been gone twae days when half-a-dozen men, or maybe more, came wi’ horse and a’ and a letter frae you yoursel, seekin’ the lass. They said that a’ was peaceably settled now, and that you had sent them to fetch her to meet you at Lanerick. I hadna a thocht but that it was a’ richt and neither had the lass, for she was blithe to gang. Next day, that was yestreen, here comes your servant Nicol wi’ a face as red as a sodger’s coat, and when he finds Marjory gone he sits down wi’ his heid atween his hands and spak never a word to any man. Then aboot the darkening he gets up and eats a dinner as though he hadna seen meat for a twal’ month. Then off he gangs, and tells na a soul where he was gaun.” The old man had lost all his fine bearing and correct speech, and stood by the door shivering with age and anxiety.
A whirlwind of thoughts passed through my mind. Now that the old order was at end, Gilbert’s power had gone with it, and he was likely to find it go hard with him soon. There was but one refuge for him — in his own lands in the west, where, in his great house of Eaglesham or his town dwelling in Glasgow, he might find harborage; for the very fact that they were in the stronghold of the Whigs made them the more secure. Thither he must have gone if he had any remnant of wit, and thither he had taken my lady. And with the thought my whole nature was steeled into one fierce resolve to follow him and call him to bitter account. My first fit of rage had left me, and a more deadly feeling had taken its place. This earth was too narrow a place for my cousin and me to live in, and somewhere in these Westlands I would meet him and settle accounts once and for all. It was not anger I felt, I give you my word. Nay, it was a sense of some impelling fate behind driving me forward to meet this man, who had crossed me so often. The torments of baffled love and frustrated ambition were all sunk in this one irresistible impulse.
I clambered on my horse once more, and a strange sight I must have seemed to the gaping servants and their astonished master.
“I am off on the quest,” I cried, “but I will give you one word of news ere I go. The king has fled the land, and the Dutch William goes to the throne.” And I turned and galloped down the avenue, leaving a throng of pale faces staring after my horse’s tail.
Once on the road I lashed my animal into a mad gallop. Some devil seemed to have possessed me. I had oft thought fondly in the past that my nature was not such as the wild cavaliers whom I had seen, but more that of the calm and reasonable philosopher. Now I laughed bitterly at these vain imaginings. For when a man’s heart is stirred to its bottom with love or hatred all surface graces are stripped from it and the old primeval passions sway him, which swayed his father before him. But with all my heat I felt a new coolness and self-possession. A desperate calm held me. In a little all things would be settled, for this was the final strife, from which one or other of the combatants would never return.
The dull November eve came on me ere I reached the Clyde. ‘Twas no vantage to ford the stream, so I rode down the left bank among the damp haughs and great sedgy pools. In a little I had come to the awful gorge where the water foams over many linns and the roar of the place is like the guns of an army. Here I left the stream side and struck into the country, whence I returned again nearly opposite the town of Lanark, at the broad, shallow place in the river, which folk call the Fords o’ Clyde.
Here there is a clachan of houses jumbled together in a crinkle of the hill, where the way from the Ayrshire moors to the capital comes down to the bank. Here there was an inn, an indifferent place, but quiet and little frequented; and since there was little to be got by going further I resolved to pass the night in the house. So I rode down the uneven way to where I saw the light brightest, and found the hostel by a swinging lamp over the door. So giving my horse to a stableman, with many strict injunctions as to his treatment, I entered the low doorway and found my way to the inn parlour.
From the place came a great racket of mirth, and as I opened the door a glass struck against the top and was shivered to pieces. Inside, around the long table, sat a round dozen of dragoons making merry after their boisterous fashion. One would have guessed little indeed from their faces that their occupation was gone, for they birled at the wine as if the times were twenty years back and King Charles (whom God rest) just come anew to his throne.
