CHAPTER X
OF THE MAN WITH THE ONE EYE AND THE ENCOUNTER IN THE GREEN CLEUCH
I promise you I slept little that night, and it was with a heavy heart that I rose betimes and dressed in the chill of the morning. There was no one awake, and I left the house unobserved, whistling softly to keep up my spirits.
Just without, someone came behind me and cried my name. I turned round sharply, and there was my servant Nicol, slinking after me for all the world like a collie-dog which its master has left at home.
"What do you want with me?" I cried.
"Naething," he groaned sadly. "I just wantit to see ye afore ye gaed. I am awfu' feared, sir, for you gaun awa' yoursel'. If it werena for Mistress Marjory, it wad be a deal mair than your word wad keep me frae your side. But I cam to see if there was nae way o' gettin' word o' ye. My leddy will soon turn dowie, gin she gets nae sough o' your whereabouts. Ye'd better tell me where I can get some kind o' a letter."
"Well minded!" I cried. "You know the cairn on the backside of Caerdon just above the rising of Kilbucho Burn. This day three weeks I will leave a letter for your mistress beneath the stones, which you must fetch and give her. And if I am safe and well every three weeks it will be the same. Good day to you, Nicol, and see you look well to the charge I have committed to you."
"Guid day to you, sir," he said, and I protest that the honest fellow had tears in his eyes; and when I had gone on maybe half a mile and looked back, he was still standing like a stone in the same spot.
At first I was somewhat depressed in my mind. It is a hard thing thus to part from one's mistress when the air is thick with perils to both. So as I tramped through the meadows and leaped the brooks, it was with a sad heart, and my whole mind was taken up in conjuring back the pleasant hours I had spent in my lady's company, the old frolics in the wood of Dawyck, the beginnings of our love-making, even the ride hither from the Cor Water. Yesterday, I reflected, she was with me here; now I am alone and like to be so for long. Then I fell to cursing myself for a fool, and went on my way with a better heart.
But it was not till I had crossed the wide stream of the Douglas Water and begun to ascend the hills, that I wholly recovered my composure. Before, I had been straggling in low meadows which do not suit my temper, since I am above all things hill-bred and a lover of dark mountains. So now on the crisp spring grass of the slopes my spirits rose. Was not I young and strong and skilled in the accomplishments of a man? The world was before me – that wide, undiscovered world which had always attracted the more heroic spirits. What hardship was there to live a free life among the hills, under the sunshine and the wind, the clouds and the blue sky?
But my delight could never be unmixed though I tried. After all, was I free? I felt of a sudden that I was not one half equipped for a gipsy, adventurous life. I was tied down to custom and place with too many ties. I came of a line of landed gentlemen. The taint of possession, of mastery and lordship over men and land, was strong in me. I could not bring me to think of myself as a kinless and kithless vagabond, having no sure place of abode. Then my love of letters, my learning, my philosophy, bound me down with indissoluble bands. To have acquired a taste for such things was to have unfitted myself for ever for the life of careless vagabondage. Above all there was my love; and ever, as I went on, my thoughts came home from their aërial flights and settled more and more in a little room in a house in a very little portion of God's universe. And more and more I felt myself a slave to beloved tyrants, and yet would not have been free if I could.
It was always thus with me when alone: I must fall to moralising and self-communing. Still perhaps the master feeling in my mind was one of curiosity and lightheartedness. So I whistled, as I went, all the old tunes of my boyhood which I was wont to whistle when I went out to the hills with my rod and gun, and stepped briskly over the short heather, and snapped my fingers in the face of the world.
Now I dared not go back to Tweeddale by the way by which I had come, for the Clyde valley above Abington would be a hunting-ground of dragoons for many days. There was nothing for it but to make for the lower waters, ford the river above Coulter, and then come to Tweeddale in the lower parts, and thence make my way to the Water of Cor. Even this course was not without its dangers; for the lower glen of Tweed was around Dawyck and Barns, and this was the very part of all the land the most perilous to me at the moment. To add to this, I was well at home among the wilder hills; but it was little I knew of Clydesdale below Abington, till you come to the town of Lanark. This may at first seem a trifling misfortune, but in my present case it was a very great one. For unless a man knows every house and the character of its inmates he is like to be in an ill way if close watched and threatened. However, I dreaded this the less, and looked for my troubles mainly after I had once entered my own lands in Tweeddale.
At the time when the sun rose I was on a long hill called Craigcraw, which hangs at the edge of the narrow crack in the hills through which goes the bridle-road from Lanark to Moffat. I thought it scarce worth my while to be wandering aimlessly among mosses and craigs when something very like a road lay beneath me; so I made haste to get down and ease my limbs with the level way. It was but a narrow strip of grass, running across the darker heath, and coiling in front like a green ribbon through nick or scaur or along the broad brae-face.
Soon I came to the small, roofless shieling of Redshaw, where aforetime lived a villain of rare notoriety, with whose name, "Redshaw Jock," Jean Morran embittered my childhood. I thought of all these old pleasing days, as I passed the bare rickle of stones in the crook of the burn. Here I turned from the path, for I had no desire to go to Abington, and struck up a narrow howe in the hills, which from the direction I guessed must lead to the lower Clyde. It was a lonesome place as ever I have seen. The spring sunshine only made the utter desolation the more apparent and oppressive. Afar on the hillside, by a clump of rowan trees, I saw the herd's house of Wildshaw, well named in its remote solitude. But soon I had come to the head of the burn and mounted the flat tableland, and in a little came to the decline on the other side, and entered the glen of the Roberton Burn.
Here it was about the time of noon, and I halted to eat my midday meal. I know not whether if was the long walk and the rough scrambling, or the clean, fresh spring air, or the bright sunshine, or the clear tinkle of the burn at my feet, or the sense of freedom and adventurous romance, but I have rarely eaten a meal with such serene satisfaction. All this extraordinary day I had been alternating between excessive gaiety and sad regrets. Now the former element had the mastery, and I was as hilarious as a young horse when he is first led out to pasture.
And after a little as I sat there my mirth grew into a sober joy. I remembered all the poets who had sung of the delights of the open air and the unshackled life. I laughed at my former feeling of shame in the matter. Was there any ignominy in being driven from the baseness of settled habitation to live like a prince under God's sky? And yet, as I exulted in the thought, I knew all too well that in a little my feelings would have changed and I would be in the depths of despondency.
In less than an hour I had turned a corner of hill and there before me lay the noble strath of Clyde. I am Tweedside born and will own no allegiance save to my own fair river, but I will grant that next to it there is none fairer than the upper Clyde. Were it not that in its lower course it flows through that weariful west country among the dull whigamores and Glasgow traders, it would be near as dear to me as my own well-loved Tweed. There it lay, glittering in light, and yellow with that strange yellow glow that comes on April waters. The little scrubs of wood were scarce seen, the few houses were not in the picture; nothing caught the eye save the giant mouldings of the hills, the severe barren vale, and the sinuous path of the stream.
I crossed it without any mishap, wading easily through at one of the shallows. There was no one in sight, no smoke from any dwelling; all was as still as if it were a valley of the dead. Only from the upper air the larks were singing, and the melancholy peewits cried ever over the lower moorlands. From this place my course was clear; I went up the prattling Wandel Burn, from where it entered the river, and soon I was once more lost in the windings of the dark hills. There is a narrow bridle-path which follows the burn, leading from Broughton in Tweeddale to Abington, so the way was easier walking.
And now I come to the relation of one of the strangest adventures of this time, which as often as I think upon it fills me with delight. For it was a ray of amusement in the perils and hardships of my wanderings.
A mile or more up this stream, just before the path begins to leave the waterside and strike towards the highlands, there is a little green cleuch, very fair and mossy, where the hills on either side come close and the glen narrows down to half a hundred yards. When I came to this place I halted for maybe a minute to drink at a pool in the rocks, for I was weary with my long wanderings.
A noise in front made me lift my head suddenly and stare before me. And there riding down the path to meet me was a man. His horse seemed to have come far, for it hung its head as if from weariness and stumbled often. He himself seemed to be looking all around him and humming some blithe tune. He was not yet aware of my presence, for he rode negligently, like one who fancies himself alone. As he came nearer I marked him more clearly. He was a man of much my own height, with a shaven chin and a moustachio on his upper lip. He carried no weapons save one long basket-handled sword at his belt. His face appeared to be a network of scars; but the most noteworthy thing was that he had but one eye, which glowed bright from beneath bushy brows. Here, said I to myself, is a man of many battles.
In a moment he caught my eye, and halted abruptly not six paces away. He looked at me quietly for some seconds, while his horse, which was a spavined, broken-winded animal at best, began to crop the grass. But if his mount was poor, his dress was of the richest and costliest, and much gold seemed to glisten from his person.
"Good day, sir," said he very courteously. "A fellow-traveller, I perceive." By this time I had lost all doubt, for I saw that the man was no dragoon, but of gentle birth by his bearing. So I answered him readily.
"I little expected to meet any man in this deserted spot, least of all a mounted traveller. How did you come over these hills, which if I mind right are of the roughest?"
"Ah," he said, "my horse and I have done queer things before this," and he fell to humming a fragment of a French song, while his eye wandered eagerly to my side.
Suddenly he asked abruptly: "Sir, do you know aught of sword-play?"
I answered in the same fashion that I was skilled in the rudiments.
He sprang from his horse in a trice and was coming towards me.
"Thank God," he cried earnestly, "thank God. Here have I been thirsting for days to feel a blade in my hands, and devil a gentleman have I met. I thank you a thousand times, sir, for your kindness. I beseech you to draw."
"But," I stammered, "I have no quarrel with you."
He looked very grieved. "True, if you put it in that way. But that is naught between gentlemen, who love ever to be testing each other's prowess. You will not deny me?"
"Nay," I said, "I will not," for I began to see his meaning, and I stripped to my shirt and, taking up my sword, confronted him.
So there in that quiet cleuch we set to with might and main, with vast rivalry but with no malice. We were far too skilled to butcher one another like common rufflers. Blow was given and met, point was taken and parried, all with much loving kindness. But I had not been two minutes at the work when I found I was in the hands of a master. The great conceit of my play which I have always had ebbed away little by little. The man before me was fencing easily with no display, but every cut came near to breaking my guard, and every thrust to overcoming my defence. His incomprehensible right eye twinkled merrily, and discomposed my mind, and gave me no chance of reading his intentions. It is needless to say more. The contest lasted scarce eight minutes. Then I made a head-cut which he guarded skilfully, and when on the return my blade hung more loose in my hand he smote so surely and well that, being struck near the hilt, it flew from my hand and fell in the burn.
He flung down his weapon and shook me warmly by the hand.
"Ah, now I feel better," said he. "I need something of this sort every little while to put me in a good humour with the world. And, sir, let me compliment you on your appearance. Most admirable, most creditable! But oh, am I not a master in the craft?"
So with friendly adieux we parted. We had never asked each other's name and knew naught of each other's condition, but that single good-natured contest had made us friends; and if ever I see that one-eyed man again in life I shall embrace him like a brother. For myself, at that moment, I felt on terms of good-comradeship with all, and pursued my way in a settled cheerfulness.
CHAPTER XI
HOW A MILLER STROVE WITH HIS OWN MILL-WHEEL
I lay that night on the bare moors, with no company save the birds, and no covering save a dry bush of heather. The stars twinkled a myriad miles away, and the night airs blew soft, and I woke in the morning as fresh as if I had lain beneath the finest coverlet on the best of linen. Near me was a great pool in a burn, and there I bathed, splashing to my heart's content in the cold water. Then I ate my breakfast, which was no better than the remnants of the food I had brought away with me the day before from Smitwood; but I gulped it down heartily and hoped for something better. There will be so much complaining, I fear, in my tale ere it is done, that I think it well to put down all my praise of the place and the hours which passed pleasingly.
By this time I was on a little plateau, near the great black hill of Coomb Dod, a place whence three streams flow – the Camps Water and the Coulter Water to the Clyde, and the burn of Kingledoors to Tweed. Now here had I been wise I should at once have gone down the last-named to the upper waters of Tweed near the village of Tweedsmuir, whence I might have come without danger to the wilder hills and the Cor Water hiding-place. But as I stayed there desire came violently upon me to go down to the fair green haughlands about the Holmes Water, which is a stream which rises not far off the Kingledoors burn, but which flows more to the north and enters Tweed in the strath of Drummelzier not above a few miles from Barns itself and almost at the door of Dawyck. There I knew was the greater danger, because it lay on the straight line between Abington and Peebles, a way my cousin Gilbert travelled often in those days. But I was not disposed at that moment to think of gradations of danger; and indeed, after my encounter on the previous afternoon, I was in a haphazard, roystering mood, and would have asked for nothing better than a chance of making holes in my cousin or his company.
Now in Holmes Water glen there dwelled many who would receive me gladly and give me shelter and food if I sought it. There were the Tweedies of Quarter and Glencotho, kin to myself on the mother's side, not to speak of a score of herds whom I had dealings with. But my uppermost reason was to see once more that lovely vale, the fairest, unless it be the Manor, in all the world. It is scarce six miles long, wide at the bottom and set with trees and rich with meadows and cornland, but narrowing above to a long, sinuous green cleft between steep hills. And through it flows the clearest water on earth, wherein dwell the best trout – or did dwell, for, as I write, I have not angled in it for many days. I know not how I can tell of the Holmes Water. It tumbles clear and tremulous into dark brown pools. In the shallows it is like sunlight, in the falls like virgin snow. And overall the place hangs a feeling of pastoral quiet and old romance, such as I never knew elsewhere.
Midday found me in the nick of the hill above Glencotho debating on my after course. I had it in my mind to go boldly in and demand aid from my kinsman. But I reflected that matters were not over-pleasant between us at the time. My father had mortally offended him on some occasion (it would be hard to name the Tweedside gentleman whom my father had not mortally angered), and I could scarce remember having heard that the quarrel had been made up. I knew that in any case if I entered they would receive me well for the honour of the name; but I am proud, and like little to go to a place where I am not heartily welcome. So I resolved to go to Francie Smails, the herd's, and from him get direction and provender.
The hut was built in a little turn of the water beneath a high bank. I knocked at the door, not knowing whether some soldier might not come to it, for the dragoons were quartered everywhere. But no one came save Francie himself, a great, godly man who lived alone, and cared not for priest or woman. He cried aloud when he saw me.
"Come in by," he says, "come in quick; this is nae safe place the noo."
And he pulled me in to the hearth, where his mid-day meal was standing. With great good-will he bade me share it, and afterward, since he had heard already of my case and had no need for enlightenment thereon, he gave me his good counsel.
"Ye maunna bide a meenute here," he said. "I'll pit up some cauld braxy and bread for ye, for it's a' I have at this time o' year. Ye maun get oot o' the glen and aff to the hills wi' a' your pith, for some o' Maister Gilbert's men passed this morn on their way to Barns, and they'll be coming back afore nicht. So ye maun be aff, and I counsel ye to tak the taps o' the Wormel and syne cross the water abune the Crook, and gang ower by Talla and Fruid to the Cor. Keep awa' frae the Clyde hills for ony sake, for they're lookit like my ain hill i' the lambin' time; and though it's maybe safer there for ye the noo, in a wee it'll be het eneuch. But what are ye gaun to dae? Ye'll be makkin' a try to win ower the sea, for ye canna skip aboot on thae hills like a paitrick for ever.
"I do not know," said I; "I have little liking for another sea journey, unless all else is hopeless. I will bide in the hills as long as I can, and I cannot think that the need will be long. For I have an inkling, and others beside me, that queer things will soon happen."
"Guid send they dae," said he, and I bade him good-bye. I watched him striding off to the hill, and marvelled at the life ne led. Living from one year's end to another on the barest fare, toiling hard on the barren steeps for a little wage, and withal searching his heart on his long rounds by the canon of the book of God. A strange life and a hard, yet no man knows what peace may come out of loneliness.
Now had I taken his advice I should have been saved one of the most vexatious and hazardous episodes of my life. But I was ever self-willed, and so, my mind being set on going down the Holmes vale, I thought nothing of going near the Wormel, but set off down the bridle way, as if I were a King's privy councillor and not a branded exile.
I kept by the stream till patches of fields began to appear and the roofs of the little clachan. Then I struck higher up on the hillside and kept well in the shade of a little cloud of birk trees which lay along the edge of the slope. It was a glorious sunny day, such as I scarce ever saw surpassed, though I have seen many weathers under many skies. The air was as still and cool as the first breath of morning, though now it was mid-afternoon. All the nearer hills stood out clear-lined and silent; a bird sang in the nigh thicket; sheep bleated from the meadow, and around the place hung the low rustle of the life of the woods.
Soon I came to a spot above the bend of the water near the house called Holmes Mill. There dwelt my very good friend the miller, a man blessed with as choice a taste in dogs as ever I have seen, and a great Whig to boot – both of which tricks he learned from a Westland grandfather. Lockhart was his name, and his folk came from the Lee near the town of Lanark to this green Tweedside vale. From the steading came the sound of life. There was a great rush of water out of the dam. Clearly the miller was preparing for his afternoon's labours. The wish took me strongly to go down and see him, to feel the wholesome smell of grinding corn, and above all to taste his cakes, which I had loved of old. So without thinking more of it, and in utter contempt for the shepherd's warning, I scrambled down, forded the water, and made my way to the house.
Clearly something was going on at the mill, and whatever it was there was a great to-do. Sounds of voices came clear to me from the mill-door, and the rush of the water sang ever in my ears. The miller has summoned his family to help him, thought I: probably it is the lifting of the bags to the mill-loft.
But as I came nearer I perceived that it was not a mere chatter of friendly tongues, but some serious matter. There was a jangling note, a sound as of a quarrel and an appeal. I judged it wise therefore to keep well in the shadow of the wall and to go through the byre and up to the loft by an old way which I remembered – a place where one could see all that passed without being seen of any.
And there sure enough was a sight to stagger me. Some four soldiers with unstrung muskets stood in the court, while their horses were tethered to a post. Two held the unhappy miller in their stout grip, and at the back his wife and children were standing in sore grief. I looked keenly at the troopers, and as I looked I remembered all too late the shepherd's words. They were part of my cousin's company, and one I recognised as my old friend Jan Hamman of the Alphen Road and the Cor Water.
The foremost of the soldiers was speaking.
"Whig though you be," said he "you shall hae a chance of life. You look a man o' muscle. I'll tell you what I'll dae. Turn on the sluice and set the mill-wheel gaun, and then haud on to it; and if you can keep it back, your life you shall hae, as sure as my name's Tam Gordon. But gin you let it gang, there'll be four bullets in you afore you're an hour aulder, and a speedy meeting wi' your Maker. Do you wish to mak the trial?"
Now the task was hopeless from the commencement, for big though a man be, and the miller was as broad and high a man as one may see in Tweeddale, he has no chance against a mill-race. But whether he thought the thing possible or whether he wanted to gain a few minutes' respite from death, the man accepted and took off his coat to the task. He opened the sluice and went forward to the wheel.
Soon the water broke over with a rush and the miller gripped a spoke like grim death. For a moment the thing was easy, for it takes some minutes for the water to gather body and force. But in a little it became harder, and the sinews on his bare arms began to swell with the strain. But still he held on valiantly and the wheel moved never an inch. Soon the sweat began to run over his face, and the spray from the resisted water bespattered him plentifully. Then the strain became terrible. His face grew livid as the blood surged to his head, his eyeballs stood out, and his arms seemed like to be torn from their sockets. The soldiers, with the spirit of cruel children, had forgot their weapons, and crowded round the wheel to see the sport.
I saw clearly that he could not hold out much longer, and that unless I wanted to see a friend butchered before my eyes I had better be up and doing. We were two resolute men; I armed and with considerable skill of the sword, he unarmed, but with the strength of a bull. The most dangerous things about our opponents were their weapons. Could I but get between them and their muskets we could make a fight for it yet.
Suddenly as I looked the man failed. With a sob of weariness he loosed his hold. The great wheel caught the stream and moved slowly round, and he almost fell along with it. His tormentors laughed cruelly, and were about to seize him and turn back, when I leaped from the loft window like some bolt from a clear sky.
My head was in a whirl and I had no thought of any plan. I only knew that I must make the venture at any cost, or else be branded in my soul as a coward till my dying day.
I fell and scrambled to my feet.
"Lockhart," I cried, "here man, here. Run."
He had the sense to see my meaning. Exhausted though he was, he broke from his astonished captors, and in a moment was beside me and the weapons.
As I looked on them I saw at a glance where our salvation lay.
"Take these two," I said, pointing to the muskets. "I will take the others."
I cleared my throat and addressed the soldiers. "Now, gentlemen," said I, "once more the fortune of war has delivered you into my hands. We, as you perceive, command the weapons. I beg your permission to tell you that I am by no means a poor shot with the musket, and likewise that I do not stick at trifles, as doubtless my gallant friend Master Hamman will tell you."
The men were struck dumb with surprise to find themselves thus taken at a disadvantage. They whispered for a little among themselves. Doubtless the terrors of my prowess had been so magnified by the victims in the last escapade to cover their shame that I was regarded as a veritable Hector.
"Are you the Laird of Barns?" said the leader at last, very politely.
I bowed.
"Then give us leave to tell you that we are nane sae fond o' the Captain, your cousin," said he, thinking to soothe me.
"So much the worse for my cousin," said I.
"Therefore we are disposed to let you gang free."
"I am obliged," said I, "but my cousin is my cousin, and I tolerate no rebellion toward one so near of blood. I am therefore justified, gentlemen, in using your own arms against you, since I have always believed that traitors were shot."
At this they looked very glum. At last one of them spoke up – for after all they were men.
"If ye'll tak the pick o' ony yin o' us and stand up to him wi' the sma'-sword, we'll agree to bide by the result."
"I thank you," I said, "but I am not in the mood for sword exercise. However, I shall be merciful, though that is a quality you have shown little of. You shall have your horses to ride home on, but your arms you shall leave with me as a pledge of your good conduct. Strip, gentlemen."
And strip they did, belt and buckler, pistol and sword. Then I bade them go, not without sundry compliments as one by one they passed by me. There were but four of them, and we had all the arms, so the contest was scarcely equal. Indeed my heart smote me more than once that I had not accepted the fellow's offer to fight. The leader spoke up boldly to my face.
"You've gotten the better o' us the noo, but it'll no be long afore you're gettin' your kail through the reek, Master John Burnet."
At which I laughed and said 'twas a truth I could not deny.