by John Buchan
At a turn in the road he saw a rider before him not a quarter of a mile ahead. He drew back and stared. Something in the figure and carriage were familiar. The man was riding in a hurry, for he used his whip frequently and with vigour. Then recollection came to Francis, and in spite of his gloom he had almost laughed. This was indeed the Lord President Forbes on his way to his house of Culloden, doubtless on some sudden business of state. The man’s composure was almost restored. Clearly the great statesman feared him; he had been at the pains to deceive him and rise early to outwit him. Strange are the crannies of our nature; for it is a fact that the sight lessened Francis’ self-loathing and the bitterness of Mr. Forbes’ reproof. After all, he was still of some consequence in the world, and though his heart was repentant it was remorse without pain.
CHAPTER IX. My Lord of Lovat.
That night he lay at a wretched cottage by the wayside where the hill-air came through the gaps in the heather roof and made the sleeper shiver on his couch of grass. The land was now a mere chaos of black mountains, and the road, which at first had borne some likeness to a highway, was now sunk to an ill-marked scar through the moss. It made heavy riding, and through the next day our traveller felt more weary than he cared to own. Had not the sun been bright and the weather dry, he might have missed the track utterly, for the bogs which lay among the hills were hard to wrestle through. At evening he was fain to stop at a hut which lay on the side of a long hill called Corryarrick, up which the road went in corkscrew fashion for half a score of miles. The man of the place gave him some kind of oaten porridge and a raw whisky which burned his palate, and told him many details of his way. This, it appeared, was still the country of the Athole Stewarts, but over the affronting hills began the lands of Stratherick and the domain of the Frasers. The fellow had little good to say of them; nay, by his account they were a clan of gruesome savages hated of God and their neighbours. So it was with some foreboding that Francis at the next dawning set his horse’s face to the ascent.
All that day he rode in a bleak land, where wild tracts of moss with shining lochs scattered athwart them were frowned on by murky hills. And, to make the road worse, the place was scarred with horrific ravines running to the westward, at whose bottom foamed impetuous rivers. At the best they were spanned by rough bridges of tree trunks and heather, but more than once there was nothing for it but to make the steep descent and breast the waters. The day was still cloudless, but what with many wettings and the hardships of the path Francis fell into a dismal frame of mind. No human dwelling relieved the inhospitable waste, his store of provisions failed, and, to crown all, his horse fell lame at the crossing of a burn and had to be led heavily through the hags.
In the late afternoon three men arose as if from the bowels of the earth, and laid hands on horse and man. As it chanced, this was the best thing that could have happened, for they were men of Lovat’s own clan in Stratherick, filthy, thieving rascals, but loyal to their lord. So it fell out that when they had plied Francis with unintelligible Gaelic, one, more learned than the rest, asked his name and business in a travesty of English. He replied that he sought the house of Macshimei at Castle Dounie, for so he had been told to speak of the head of the clan. The bare word was enough for the men, who straightway became friendly and set to relieve his wants. They dressed his horse’s knee with a concoction of herbs, bandaging it after a fashion of their own, and led Francis to a cluster of cabins on the edge of a long loch. Here they gave him meat, — roast moor-fowl and eggs and a more palatable kind of bread, with a glass of excellent brandy. And in the morning one undertook to guide him past the narrows of the loch and set him well on his way to his destination.
When in the afternoon he crossed the river which formed the outlet of the lake, he found himself on the confines of a pleasant country. Set like an oasis among the stormy deserts lay meadows and haughlands and a fringe of woods, while beyond gleamed a quiet stretch of sea. The place was green and habitable, and on Francis’s wearied eyes it fell like a glimpse of an Arcady. He could scarce believe his senses, for this looked more like the Lothians or the cornlands of Fife. But the high brown towers of the castle rising from the seaward slope and the bald scarp of Lovat on a cape in the Firth told of a chieftain’s dwelling. The sky was darkening towards evening as he rode to the great pile, and his heart almost misgave him. He was on a nicely diplomatic errand, one, too, not without its peril. The man who dwelled there was one of the most famous names in the land, ill-reputed for lawlessness and treachery, notorious for a wit too subtle for prosaic earth. Who was he, a raw, unlettered vagrant, to meet such an one face to face and teach him his business? He was tired to death, too, with his moorland journey, and his brain was half clouded with sleep.
There was no guard at the gate, — nothing save two unkempt serving-men quarrelling over a jug of ale. They asked his business with a high gravity and led him into a damp courtyard where children squalled and serving-women chattered. The informality of such a place restored Francis to self-confidence, and he followed his guides with an assured step. A noise of rackety mirth fell on his ear, and he was ushered into the great dining-hall of the castle, where some fifty and more men sat at meat. The air was thick with the fumes of wine and hot dishes, bare-footed gillies ran hither and thither, and it took no extraordinarily acute eye or nostril to perceive that the place was exceeding dirty. At the lower end of the great table a crowd of ragged and dishevelled men quarrelled and scrambled for bones and offal. Thence there seemed to rise degrees of respectability from the common herd who supped on sheep-heads and whisky to the more honoured, the lesser gentry of the clan, who had good beef and mutton and plenty of claret. At the very top sat the lord himself with his more distinguished friends, Frasers of Gortuleg, Phopachy, and Byerfield, eating French dishes and drinking many choice wines. One of the ragged servants went to the chief’s ear and whispered as he had been bidden, “Mr. Francis Birkenshaw with a message from Mr. Murray of Broughton;” and straightway room was made for the traveller at the honourable end of the table.
The cooking was of the finest, and Francis appeased his hunger with great satisfaction. No notice of him was taken by his neighbours to left and right, but each listened to his lord’s pleasantries with the anxious care of the retainer. From the great man himself Francis could not keep his eyes, and in the pauses of the meal he found himself narrowly watching the mighty figure lolling in his carven arm-chair. Already beyond the confines of old age, an ungainly form with legs swollen with the gout and a huge rolling paunch, he lay in his seat like a mere drunken glutton. But when the eye passed from his body to the ponderous face and head, the mind drew his nature in different colours. The brow was broad and wrinkled with a thousand lines, hanging heavy over his eyes and fringed with great grey eyebrows. The thick fleshy nose, the coarse lips, the flaccid grey cheeks, were all cast in lines of massive strength, and the jaw below the cunning mouth was hard as if cut in stone. But the most notable point in the man was the pair of little eyes, still keen as a ferret’s, and cruel in their resolute blue. He ate ravenously, and drank scandalously of every wine, keeping all the while a fire of compliments and jocularities, coarse as the gutter, at which the obedient assembly roared.
By and by, and not for a good hour, the feast came to an end, and the old lord was lifted from his seat by two servants. “Gentlemen,” he cried, “there will be supper here in a matter of two hours, beefsteaks and claret for all that wish them. See that no man goes empty out of this house of Dounie. For mysel’, ye see that the infirmities of age creep over me, and the thrang o’ many cares compels me to quit ye. Guid e’en to ye, friends, guid fare and a safe returning.” And he hobbled away, leaning heavily on his bearers.
After his departure the table was turned into a scene of riot, all shouting in Gaelic, drinking strange toasts and quarrelling at times in pairs and threes. Francis felt sadly out of place in a company where he was known to none and heard nothing but a strange language. So when a gillie touched h
is sleeve and bade him follow, for “ta great Macshimei wad speak with him,” he rose gladly and left the reeking hall. The man led him into another room furnished with some approach to comfort, where rugs of deerskin covered the nakedness of the stone floor; thence into a passage which led to a narrow stone stair; and finally stopped at the entrance to a little turret-room. With an air of deep secrecy he tapped twice, and then with a flourish opened the door and showed Francis in, crying the announcement, “To speak with ta Lord Lovat.”
The place was little and bright, with a cheerful fire and a long couch of skins. So thick were the walls, so narrow the space, that Francis felt himself secluded from the world. The chief lay stretched out with his feet to the blaze, a little black table with wine at his elbow. He looked up sharply at the entrance, and then stared once more into the fire as Francis came forward and stood before him. After a little he raised his head. “Young man,” he said, “I pray you sit down. See to your ain comfort. Ye are admitted to a private and secret audience with a man who is not accessible to all. I trust ye have the sense to value your preevilege.”
Francis bowed in some confusion. The look of arrogant strength in this strange old man crushed his spirits. He sorely distrusted his own wits in contest with this rock of iron.
“Ye will have a letter from the secretary?”
“Indeed, no,” said Francis, “for the matter is somewhat too long for a letter. It is a thing for a discussion, my lord, and not for a scrawl on paper.”
The old man looked grimly at the speaker. “And who are you in God’s name,” he rasped out, “that is thocht worthy to come and treat wi’ me? — me, the first lord in the Hielands, the friend o’ princes.”
“My name is Francis Birkenshaw, at your service,” said the other, conscious that those shrewd eyes were scanning every line in his face, every thread in his garments.
Once more his catechist plied him. “Are ye gentrice?” he asked.
At this some heat came into Francis’ blood, and he answered warmly, “I am even as yourself, my lord. My descent is none so regular, but I have the name and blood of a gentleman.”
Lovat frowned crossly, for the scandals of his family were common talk. “Ye have a ready tongue in your head, sir, but ye are somewhat lacking in respect. So ye are one of Murray’s packmen?”
He waited for an answer, but Francis held his peace. “Ay,” he went on, “a deeficult, dangerous job. Murray’s a shilpit body, a keen man for his ain guid, but without muckle penetration. But his wife — weel, d’ ye ken his wife?”
“I have the honour of her acquaintance,” said Francis, stiffly.
“Have ye indeed?” said Lovat, smiling. “A fine woman, then, I can tell ye, sir. A bonny bitch! A speerity licht sort o’ body!” and he looked from below his eyebrows to see the effect of his words.
“If you will pardon me, sir,” said Francis, “I fail to see your point. You are talking of the character of those with whom I have nothing to do. Be assured I did not ride over your wet hills to indulge in moral disquisitions.”
The man laughed long to himself. “So that’s your talk,” he said, “and you’re no one o’ Murray’s fighting-cocks? Weel, the better for my business. Help yoursel’ to some wine, Mr. Birkenshaw, for it’s drouthy work talking.”
Further he bade Francis draw his chair nearer the fire and stir the logs to a blaze. Then silence reigned in the room while the elder man stared into the glow with a face which even in the dim light seemed to his companion to be working with some emotion.
“It’s a queer warld,” he said at length, “and for the auld, a cruel one. Be sure, Mr. Birkenshaw, that it is a painful thing to feel the life sinking in your members and to mind again and again o’ the days when ye were young and bauld. Ebeu fugaces anni labuntur. Weel, weel, it’s the destiny of all.”
He lay back on his couch so mighty a wreck of a man that Francis’s pity was stirred. He was himself of just such a spirit, and he could forecast in imagination the bitter ebbing of vital force. He nodded gravely to each sentence. Then the old lord spoke again with a sharper tone.
“Ay, but that is no the worst of an auld man’s lot. Ye see me here, me that has been the peer o’ the best in the land, forced to keep the company o’ a wheen wild caterans, and all the while the country asteer wi’ war. I am auld and puir and weak, and so I maun sit still in this lonely stane tower and hear o’ great events through the clash o’ packmen. Once,” and his voice rose high and querulous, “once I was the great Lord Lovat, and every man was cap in hand as I came down the High Street o’ Edinburgh. Mair, far mair, — I hae carried the King himsel’, God bless him, in my arms through the gardens o’ Kensington, and my word was maybe no the least noted at Almack’s and the Cocoa Tree. There have been days, sir, when I walked in St. James’ Park, and many a braw lady cast eyes on the chief o’ the Frasers and many great lords were proud to cleek my arm. And now I maun dwine away my life in the midst o’ cauld hills and heathery mosses. I have no complaint against a merciful God, but is it not a sair dispensation? But were this all, I would say ne’er a word. But in my day I have had the feelings, ay, and maybe done the work, o’ a statesman and a patriot. I have sat at the council-board with Hamilton and Queensberry, I have been the trusted adviser of Buccleuch and Tweeddale and Aberdeen, and not once or twice, but a score o’ times did Maccallum Mhor himself call me his friend. Can I sit still then and see the land divided against itself, one king on the throne and another in the heather, and the wisest heads in braid Scotland at desperation wi’ loyalty and religion pulling one way and common prudence the ither? Ay, and I maun sit and see and groan in my inmost heart, and all the while be sae clogged wi’ this perishin’ body that I canna move.”
Lovat spoke fiercely and quickly, and Francis was impressed by the note of lofty resolution. He was dimly conscious of the grandiloquence, but the titanic strength of the recumbent figure made it seem only fitting.
“And then,” the old man continued, “there is a different side to the whole matter. Now in this, the hinner end o’ my days, I am quit o’ all personal ambition, but I canna help that natural pride which the chief must feel in his own people. All the great northern clans are taking sides, Macdonalds, Camerons, and Stewarts for the Prince, Macleods and Macintyres against him. And whatever way it falls out they will aye have taken their part in the battle and won great glory. Is it like,” he said simply, “that I could endure that the Frasers should lie quiet like auld wives or young bairns? You will pardon my enthusiasm for a poor rude, ignorant people, but they have followed me and my fathers and love my house dearly. Nay, sir, you who ken but the folk of the towns and the south country can have little notion of these poor folks’ loyalty. I am called the thirty-eighth of my name and for every lord of Lovat they have spilled their blood like water. But now in the evil days, when their lands are narrowed, and men who ken nothing but how to fight must set themselves to tillage, you can believe that their heart is cast down. They look to me to help them, and I have nothing to give them, so the poor folk must quit their bits o’ sheilings and the kindly glens where their fathers have dwelt since first a Frisel set foot in Scotland, and gang east and west and south to ither lands and stranger peoples. And there they make what shift they can to live, but their hearts are aye sair for the heathery hills and the auld glens and waters. I am no a man easily moved to tears, but the thought of my poor folk makes me greet like a bairn.”
The melancholy voice, the sorrowful words, and the great figure, which, seen in the dim light, had lost all coarseness and was almost majestic, thrilled Francis in spite of himself. He had come with a distrust of this man, with a mind well stored with tales of his extraordinary character, and in consequence he had brought to the meeting a heart triply bound against all emotions. But this air of lingering pity was overcoming him. This fusion of the complaint of an exiled Aristides with the lament of a chief over the past glories of his clan was affecting in the extreme.
Then the other changed his tone
utterly. Raising himself from his couch, he looked over to Francis with a keen face of interrogation. “I ken naught of your politics, Mr. Birkenshaw, though from your errand I might make a guess. But I assume that ye are an honest, open-minded man, and I will do ye the honour to speak plainly. I live out o’ the warld, but I have een in my head to see. We will leave the question of politics aside, if you please, for the moment. It may be that I am for the present king, it may be for him that’s ower the water. But, at any rate, the blood o’ my fathers in my veins still cries out to strike a blow for a Stuart, and I canna see the Cause misguided without a pang. And what is it that I see? A brave young lad wi’ nae experience o’ war and little knowledge o’ men, and a’ around him a cleckin’ o’ wild Highland chiefs who fecht for their ain hand and nothing besides. And them that micht be advisers, what are they? A wheen bairnly boys, wi’ guid coats on their backs and fine names, very ready wi’ their bit swords, but poor silly sheep in the day of battle. Take my word, Mr. Birkenshaw, there are only two heads in the hale concern. There’s the Athole Murray, Lord George. I bear nae guid will to him, but at least he is a man and a soldier. And there’s Murray o’ Brochtoun. Weel, the less said o’ him the better. I have come across him in mony a ploy, and the heart o’ him is as rotten as peat. But he is a man o’ pairts, his hand is in the making o’ every plan, and abune a’ he has his bonny wife to help him. It’s kenned that she has a’ her lovers at her back, and that means half the gentry o’ the land.”