*CHAPTER XXVI*
*HECTOR THE PACKMAN*
When the rude hand of calamity has blotted the light from a man's lifeall things change. The sun shone over me--but I resented hisbrightness. The birds, sang cheerfully--but there was dirge in myheart. Now and then a wayfarer passed me--but he seemed to belong toanother world than mine. I had nothing in common with him. My soul wasamong the blackened ruins of Daldowie, where Mary, the light of my eyes,and Jean and Andrew my loyal friends slept, united in death as they hadbeen in life. I envied their peace.
Sometimes as I walked I stumbled--tears blinding me. My life was abarren waste--my heart a desolation. Nothing mattered--Mary was dead.So, in a maze of torturing thoughts I journeyed till, some four daysafter leaving Daldowie--I have no memory of the precise time--I gatheredfrom a passer-by that I was only seven miles from Dumfries. Before me,huddled together on the left side of the road, was a cluster ofcottages. From their roofs steel-blue clouds of smoke were rising. Theatmosphere was one of quiet peace, and with my eyes set upon the brownroad before me I plodded wearily on. The highway was bordered on eachside by a low hedge, when suddenly that on my right hand came to an endand gave place to a green tongue of grassy lawn, which divided the roadupon which I was walking from another that swept away to the right. WhenI came abreast of this grassy promontory, I saw that it was occupied bya man. He sat under the shade of a beech tree; a pipe was between hislips and in his left hand he held a little leather-covered book. Anopen pack lay beside him. The sound of my footsteps caught his ear andhe turned towards me and looked at me with a pair of cold grey eyes.
"A very good day to you," he said, and I halted to return hissalutation. "I wonder if you can help me," he continued. "Ha'e you theLatin?" The unexpected nature of the question startled me, awaking mefrom my torpor, and I asked him to repeat himself. "It's this wey," hesaid: "this wee bookie is the work o' a Latin poet ca'd Horace, a quaintchiel, but ane o' my familiars. Now I was juist passin' a pleasanthalf-'oor wi' him, and I ha'e come across a line or twa that I canna getthe hang o' ava. But if ye ha'ena the Latin, ye'll no' be able to helpme."
"Maybe I can help," I answered, and walking towards him I seated myselfby his side.
"It's this bit," he said, laying his forefinger on the place. I tookthe little volume, and, after pausing for a moment to pick up someknowledge of the context, I suggested a rendering.
"Dod, man," he said, "ye've got it. That mak's sense, and is nae dootwhat Horace had in his heid. Let's hear a bit mair o't." I proceeded totranslate a little more when he stopped me saying, "No, no, let's ha'ethe Latin first; and then I'll be better able to follow ye."
With memories of Balliol swelling within me, I proceeded to do as hebade me. I read to the end of the ode and was about to translate itwhen he broke in:
"I see," he said, "you're an Oxford man; sic' pronunciation never fellfrae the lips o' ane o' Geordie Buchanan's school."
I felt my disguise drop from me before the piercing intuition of thisstrange wayfarer and for a moment I was at a loss how to protect myself."Possibly," I said, "my pronunciation may be of the Oxford school, but,be that as it may, you surprise me. One hardly expects to come across apackman who reads the classics."
"No," he said, "there is only ae Hector the packman, and that's me.Ever since I took to the road I have aye carried a volume o' Horace inmy pack. Mony a time I ha'e found comfort in his philosophy. I am onlya packman, but I ha'e ambitions. Can ye guess the greatest o' them?"
"To own a shop in Dumfries," I said.
A look of distress crossed his face.
"Na, na," he said. "Something far better." He bent towards his openpack and rummaged among its contents, and as he did so I observed--whathitherto had escaped my notice--that he had a wooden leg. His right kneewas bent at an angle and his foot was doubled up behind his thigh, asthough his knee-joint had been fixed in that position by disease orinjury; and the bend of his knee was fixed in the bucket of a woodenstump. "Here they are," he said, and he held up a bundle of smallpaper-covered books tied together with a tape. "Here they are. Now canye no' see the degradation it is for a man like me to hawk sic trashaboot the country."
I took the bundle and, looking at the title-page of the uppermost book,read _The Lovers' Dream-Book, being a True and Reliable Interpretationof Dreams by Joseph the Seer_. I looked at the second. It was _TheFarmer's Almanac_, and the third was _The Wife of Wigtown_.
"They're what we ca' chap-books," he said. "I sell them at a penny thepiece, but they're awfu' rubbish. Now my ambition is to improve thetaste in letters o' the country folk. For mony a year it has been myhope and intention to lay mysel' on and produce a _magnum opus_. Nowhoo dae ye think this would look on a title page?--'Selections from Odesof Horace done into braid Scots by Hector the Packman,' or 'The Wisdomof Virgil on Bees and Bee-keeping by the same author.' Man, I'mthinkin', for a work like that, I micht get a doctorate frae ane o' theUniversities. Ay, I maun lay masel' on when next winter comes." Herummaged once more among the contents of his pack, and picked out a pot,the mouth of which was covered with a piece of parchment. "You'll ha'eheard tell o' my magical salve; an infallible cure for boils or blainsin man or beast--it cures as it draws: a soothing balm for burntfingers: and a cream that confers upon a lassie's cheek the tendersaftness o' the rose." He removed the parchment and exhibited theointment. With his forefinger he transferred a piece of the unguent tothe back of his left hand and rubbed it in. In a moment he held his handup to me--"Did ye ever see onything like that? Every particle o' it isgone. Think o' the benefit that sic' a salve maun confer upon the humanepiderm. I sent the King a pot last year up to London, but I'm thinkin'it has miscarried, for I ha'e never heard frae him yet. Man, there's awidda woman in Locharbriggs: she's maybe thirty-five, but to look at heryou would say she was a lassie o' eighteen. What has done it? Hector'smagical salve! Her complexion is by-ordinar. Nae doot she was bonnieafore, but my salve has painted the lily."
How long he might have rambled on I know not. Our conversation wassuddenly interrupted by the clatter of horses approaching at a trot. Toour right I could see dimly the waters of a loch behind a fringe oftrees. The sound came from the road which bordered the water. In amoment there swept round the corner of the loch and bore down upon us alittle company of grey-coated troopers mounted on grey horses.
So this is the end, I thought, and braced myself for the ordeal wellcontent. At the head of the cavalcade rode a man with a long beard thatreached below his belt. I noticed that he wore no boots, but that hisfeet, thrust through his stirrups, were covered with coarse greystockings. As he drew abreast of us, the packman, with wonderfulalacrity, sprang up and, bonnet in hand, advanced to the edge of theroad.
"A very good day to you, Sir Thomas, a very good day," he said.
The horseman drew rein. "Well, Hector," he said, "turning up again likea bad penny! What news have you?"
"Nane but the best, sir, nane but the best. I'm juist makin' for hamefrae the Rhinns o' Gallowa', and a' through the country-side there isbut ae opinion--that the iron hand o' Lag is crushing the heart oot o'the Whigs."
"That is good news, Hector, but juist what I expected. Rebelsunderstand only one argument, and that is the strong hand. It is theonly thing I put faith in, as mony a Whig kens to his cost."
"Ye're richt, ye're richt, they ken ye weel. May I mak' sae bold as tooffer you a truss o' Virginia weed, Sir Thomas," and returning to hispack he picked up a little bundle of tobacco and offered it to thehorseman, who took it and slipped it into his pocket.
"A welcome gift, Hector, and I thank you for it. I hope it has paidduty?"
"Sir," said the packman deprecatingly, "and me a King's man!"
The rider smiled, and turning his fierce eyes upon me, said, "Who isyour companion, Hector?"
The fateful moment had come, and at that instant my life hung on thethread of a spider's web. But my hear
t was glad within me. I shouldfind my Mary on the other side. The packman turned towards me: "Oh,Joseph," he said, "he's a gangrel body like masel'. I ha'e been takin'him roond the country wi' me to teach him the packman's job, so thatwhen I retire to devote masel' to the writin' o' books I can hand owerthe pack to him."
The quick lie took my breath away.
"Umph!" grunted the horseman, "and what's he readin' there?" Suddenly Iremembered that I still held the packman's Horace in my hand. "I hopehe's a King's man and that he is no' sittin' there wi' some Covenantin'book in his kneive? Let me have a look at that book, young fellow."
I rose and, approaching him, held out the little leather-bound volume.As I did so I noticed his sharp-cut, flinty features, and a pair ofthick and surly lips half-hidden by the masses of hair on his face. Heturned the book over and found its title page.
"Oh, I see, somebody's opera! Weel, he canna' be a Covenanter if hereads operas."
"Na," said Hector, "he's a King's man, and nae Whig. But I maunna delayye, Sir Thomas, I hope ye'll enjoy the Virginia weed. Guid day to ye,sir."
"Good day, Hector." The horseman urged his horse with his knees, andthe company, breaking into a trot, swept past and turned on to the mainroad which led towards the village.
As the last of the troopers swung round the corner, the packman donnedhis bonnet, and sitting down spat after the departing cavalcade."Bloody Dalzell," he said, "the Russian Bear--a human deevil. Damn him!"
The sudden change in the packman's demeanour astonished me. I looked athim searchingly, but he had begun to arrange the contents of his bundlebefore binding it up.
"Why did you tell Sir Thomas such a string of lies about me?" I said.
He chuckled softly and looked at me, his left eyelid drooping, his righteye alertly wide. "I had ta'en a fancy to ye," he said, "and I was lothto run the risk o' partin' wi' a scholar when a lee micht keep him. Hoodae I ken that ye're no a Covenanter? I was takin' nae chances. Inearly laughed in his face when Sir Thomas, the ignorant sumph, thochtye were readin' a book o' operas. That's a guid ane! Mony a laugh I'llha'e in the lang winter nichts when I remember it. I'm no' askin' yewha or what ye are. You ha'e the Latin and I jalouse ye're anEnglishman: but till it pleases ye to tell me something aboot yersel', Iken nae mair."
As he talked he was pulling his coarse linen covering over his pack. Hebuckled the broad strap which held it together, and continued: "Isuppose ye're makin' for Dumfries. So am I, but I'm no' travellin' thedirect road. I'm haudin' awa' roon' by the loch to New Abbey. I ayelike to visit the Abbey. They ca' it the Abbey o' Dulce Cor--a bonniename and it commemorates a bonnie romance."
My interest was awakened, and I asked him to tell me more.
"Ay," he said, "it's a bonnie tale, and guid to remember. I wonder ifthe widda at Locharbriggs would dae as much for me as Devorgilla did forher man. Nae doot ye ha'e heard o' her. I am credibly informed thatshe built a college at Oxford, and dootless ye ken she built the brig atDumfries. But she did better than that, for when her man deid shecarried his heart aboot wi' her in a' her travels in a silver casket.She built the Abbey o' Dulce Cor to his memory and she lies therehersel', wi' the heart o' her husband in her bonnie white arms. As thepoet has it:
"In Dulce Cop Abbey she taketh her rest, With the heart of her husband embalmed on her breast."
A memory of Mary flamed like a rose in my heart. I choked down my tearsand said:
"I have often heard of Devorgilla. If I may, I would gladly accompanyyou and visit her tomb."
"I'll be gled o' your company," he said. "It's no' every day I ha'e thechance o' a crack wi' a scholar. Come on,"--and slinging a stick throughthe strap round his pack, he swung it on to his shoulder and we set out.
As I walked beside him I studied him. He was tall and thin, and walkedwith a stoop, his head thrust forward, his neck a column of ruddybronze.
"Ye're walking lame," he said, "but you are no' sae handicapped as me.This tree-leg o' mine is a terrible affliction. How cam' ye by yourlame leg?"
"I was a soldier once," I said. The answer seemed to satisfy him,though I was conscious that, as I spoke, the colour mounted to mycheeks.
The road upon which we found ourselves wound gently, under the cover offar-stretching trees, by the side of a beautiful loch. On the otherside of the road the ground rose steeply up to the summit of aheather-clad hill. Suddenly through a break in the green trees we had avision of the loch. Its waters lay blue and sparkling in the sunlight.Far off we could see undulating pastures, and beyond them a belt oftrees in early foliage. As we stood feasting our eyes the packmanexclaimed:
"Noo there's a pictur' that Virgil micht ha'e done justice to. It's abit ootside the range o' Horace, but I'm thinkin' Virgil wi' his e'e fora bonnie bit could ha'e written it up weel."
"It's a bonnie place the world," he continued, "fu' o' queer things, butto my thinkin' the queerest o' them a' is man, though maybe woman isqueerer. Now there's the widda at Locharbriggs; onybody would think thata woman would be proud to be wife to Hector the packman--a scholar andthe discoverer o' a magical salve, wha' some day may ha'e a handle tohis name, forby maybe a title frae the King himsel'; but will ye believeme, though I ha'e speired at her four times, I ha'e got nae furtherforrit wi' her than a promise that she'll think aboot it."
I expressed sympathy and due surprise, and my answer pleased him, for hesaid: "Man, I'm glad I met ye. Ye're a lad o' sense, and wi' somepairts as weel, for ye ha'e the Latin."
For a time we walked in silence.
Soon we had left the pleasant loch behind us and the road wound in thedistance before us. To our left the land was low lying, with here andthere a clump of trees. To our right a lower range of hills stretchedaway to end in a great blue mass that dominated our horizon.
"That's Criffel," he said, pointing to the hill, "and juist at its footnestles the Abbey o' the Sweet Heart. I ha'e little doot that doon inthe village I'll sell a chap-book or twa. Sic trash they are. I maunlay masel' on and get that book o' mine begun."
He was talking on, good-humouredly, when suddenly a shrill cry for helpcame from a clump of trees on our left. Startled I rushed forward. Ireached the edge of the copse and peered in, but could see nothing. Thecry came again, with an added note of agony; and, heedless of danger, Irushed into the wood in the direction from which it proceeded. Thepackman had apparently stayed behind me, for he was no longer by myside. Making what speed I could among the clustering trees, I hurriedon. Suddenly I heard footsteps racing behind me. I turned. Closebehind me was the fast-running figure of a man. At a first glance Ithought it was the packman, but as he rushed past me I saw that this wasa beardless man sound in both legs. I could not imagine where he camefrom, and yet his clothing was strangely like that of my recentcompanion. I followed the rushing figure and saw that in his hand was astout stick. Then through between the tree-trunks I saw the cause ofthe alarm. In an open space in the heart of the wood were four troopersin grey uniform, and I knew that I was about to burst upon some scene ofdevilry. A few steps more, and I saw a girl tied to a tree. About herstood the troopers. Two of them were holding one of her arms with herhand outstretched: the other two were busy lighting a long match. Fromthe agonising scream I had heard, I knew that the torture had alreadybeen once applied. I could see the little spurt of flame as the matchflared up, and as I dashed forward my ears were alert to hear her cry ofpain. But deliverance was at hand. Into the open space leaped the manwho had passed me. His stick swung in the air. Strongly and surely itfell on the temple of the nearest soldier, who dropped like an ox,bringing down a comrade in his fall.
Startled, the others sprang aside, but they were too slow. Twice, withlightning speed, the stick rose and twice it fell, and two more trooperswent down. I quickened my pace. The trooper who had been knocked downby the fall of the first soldier sprang to his feet, and flung himselfupon the man. Taken from behind he was at a disadvantage and thesoldier, lifting him wit
h a mighty effort, hurled him to the ground.Ere he could draw his pistol, I was upon him. My clenched fist caughthim full on the chin, and he crashed on his back and lay breathingstertorously.
"A bonnie blow, lad! I couldna ha'e done it better mysel'," cried thestranger.
While I turned to the terrified girl and severed the cords that boundher to the tree, the stranger was kneeling beside the soldiers.
"They're no deid, nane o' them, worse luck! and it will be a wee whilebefore the three o' them that felt the wecht o' my cudgel will come tae,but the fourth would be nane the waur o' a langer sleep," and swinginghis stick he struck the recumbent figure a sickening thud upon the sideof the head. "That's the proper medicine to keep him quate."
I had been so absorbed in his doings that I had turned my back upon thegirl, and when I looked for her again she was nowhere to be seen. Whenmy companion saw that she had gone, he shook his head gravely, saying:
"What was I tellin' ye? Arena women the queerest things on God'searth?"
I looked at him in astonishment; it was Hector after all!
"Good heavens, it's you!" I exclaimed.
"Ay," he replied with a smile, half-closing his left eye: "But haud yourwheesht. As the Latin has it: '_Non omnes dormiunt qui clausos habentoculos._' A trooper can sleep wi' an e'e open. Tak tent, but lend me ahaun'."
From one of his pockets he produced a roll of tarred twine. Quicklycutting lengths from it, he tied the feet of the unconscious men, whomwe dragged and laid starwise, on their backs, round one of thetree-trunks. He pulled the arms of each above their heads and broughtthem round the tree as far as possible, tying a cord firmly round theirwrists, and carrying it round the bole. The skill he displayed amazedme. Long after they should regain consciousness they would have tostruggle hard before they would be able to free themselves. I felt somesatisfaction as I thought of their plight. When he had finished hiswork he surveyed each severely, laying his hand upon their hearts.
"No, there is no' ane o' them deid. They'll a' come tae by and by. ButI'm thinkin' they'll be sair muddled. Come awa', lad."
"Let us look for the girl first," I suggested.
"Na, na," said he. "By this time the lassie, wha nae doot can rin likea hare, is half road to Kirkbean. Now if it had been the widda--butthat's a different story."
Together we made our way to the edge of the copse. Just inside it Idiscovered the discarded pack, and beside it the wooden leg and longgrey beard.
As my companion adjusted the wooden stump to his knee, he said: "Ay, sicploys are terribly sair on a rheumatic knee." Then he proceeded to puton his beard, producing from one of his pockets a little phial ofadhesive stuff with which he smeared his face. I watched, with anill-concealed smile. "Noo," he said, "did ye ever see onything cleaneror bonnier? I'm a man o' peace, but when I'm roused I'm a deevil.Juist ae clout apiece, and they fell like pole-axed stirks--the three o'them. Bonnie clouts, were they no'?"
I assured him that I had never seen foes so formidable vanquished sorapidly and completely.
"Ye're a lad o' sense," he said; "that wasna' a bad clout ye hit thelast o' them yersel'; but he needed a wee tap frae my stick to feenishhim. I like a clean job. Come on," and swinging his pack on to hisshoulder he led the way to the road.
The afternoon was drawing to a close when the village of New Abbeyappeared in sight. Criffel now stood before us, a great mountain,heather clad and beautiful, like a sentinel above the little township.By the side of the stream, which divided our path from the village, westopped, and Hector putting down his pack and taking off his coatproceeded to wash his face and hands. Nothing loth I followed suit.
As he was about to hoist his pack on to his shoulder again, he picked uphis stick, and handing it to me said: "Feel the wecht o' that." I tookit and found it strangely heavy. "It's loaded, ye see," he said--"threeand a half ounces o' guid lead let into the heid o't. Juist three and ahalf ounces--fower is ower muckle; three would be ower little--and yesaw for yersel' what it can dae. A trusty frien', I can tell ye.Naebody kens it's loaded but me and you and the Almichty, forby a wheensodgers that ha'e felt the wecht o't. I ca' it 'Trusty.' Come on,"and, slipping the weighted head of the stick through the strap, he swungthe pack on to his shoulders and we made for the village.
When we came to the inn the packman led the way through a flaggedpassage into a garden at the back. There, underneath a pear-tree, stooda green-painted bench with a table before it. Laying his pack upon theend of the bench, he sat down and pushed his bonnet back; I seatedmyself beside him.
"Noo," he said, "we maun ha'e something to eat. What will ye ha'e?"
Not knowing what might be available, I hesitated. Guessing the cause ofmy hesitation, he said: "Dinna be feared: it's a guid meat-hoose and its'tippenny' is the best in the country-side. As for me, I'm for a pinto' 'tippenny,' and a fry o' ham and eggs. The King himsel' couldna daebetter than that."
As he spoke a young girl had come through the door and now stood beforeus.
"What ha'e ye got for twa tired travellers?" asked Hector. "We want thebest; we're worthy o't, and quite able to pay for it forby."
As the packman had foretold, ham and eggs were forthcoming; and havinggiven our order Hector produced his pipe and proceeded to fill it.
When it was drawing satisfactorily he proceeded to point out thebeauties of the scene. To the right were visible great grey walls,moss-grown in places, with here and there a bush springing among theirruins.
"That," he said, "is part o' the wall o' the old Abbey. There,"pointing to the right, "is a' that remains o' the Abbey itsel'. By andby we'll gang and tak' a look at it."
Soon the girl returned with our food. When we had finished our mealHector said:
"And noo I maun go and see my frien' the miller. Meantime, I'll leaveyou in chairge o' the pack, and if onybody should want to buy, you canmak' the sale. I hope ye'll prove yersel' a guid packman,"--with whichhe stumped off.
In a moment or two the girl came to clear the table. When she had doneso, she returned, and looking at me half shyly, said: "Are ye a packmantae?"
"Yes," I answered.
"Oh," she said, "then I wonder if ye ha'e sic a thing as a dream-book inyour pack?" I opened the pack, and spread its contents before her."No, I dinna want onything else but a dream-book," she said. I foundone, and, lifting a corner of her apron, she produced a penny which shelaid upon the table, and with a finger already between the pages of thebook disappeared into the inn.
Left to myself, I drifted into a reverie. Love--the love of a man for awoman, and the love of a woman for a man--seemed the greatest thing onthe earth. The packman with his loved one at Locharbriggs; this tavernmaid with her sweetheart--for did not her desire for a dream-book tellme that she had a lover--were all under its spell. I, too, had mymemories of love,--memories of infinite tenderness--bitter--sweet--tornby tragedy. I tried to banish such thoughts from nay mind, for theybrought naught but pain, but, try how I might, I found they wouldreturn. Nor was it to be wondered at, for at that moment I was within astone's throw of Devorgilla's monument to her own enduring affection. Iwas within sight of the place where her haunting love-story had seen itsfulfilment. Within the hoary walls of that great fane Devorgilla wassleeping her eternal sleep with the heart of her husband upon herbreast. Yes, of a truth was it well said: "Many waters cannot quenchlove, neither can the floods drown it." Hector would go to the widow,the tavern maid would dream of her lover, while for me, love was nothingbut a memory. But what a memory! I was conscious of Mary'spresence--her spirit seemed to enfold me in the warm breath of theevening. I almost felt her kiss upon my cheek. Never before, sincethat day when we had parted upon the moors, had she seemed so near. Islipped my hand into my pocket and caressed the fragment of her ring. Idrew it out and pressed it to my lips, and as I did so I heard thestumping footsteps of the packman. Quickly I slipped the ring out ofsight and looked towards the door.
Hector came through, carrying a
tankard of ale in each hand.
"Drouthy work, carryin' the pack," he said. "Ha'e ye sold onything whileI ha'e been away?"
"Only a dream-book to the little maid," I answered.
"Sic trash," he groaned, "sic trash, but they will ha'e them. But waita bit; I'm gaun to lay masel' on in the back end o' the year. Did yeno' try to sell a pot o' salve?" I confessed that I had not. "Man," hesaid, "ye'll no' mak' a guid packman. I could aye sell a pot o' the balmto a lassie that buys a dream-book. But come on: the licht's juistricht for seein' the Abbey at its best."
Flower o' the Heather: A Story of the Killing Times Page 26