Complete Fictional Works of John Buchan (Illustrated)

by John Buchan

  The old man leaned forward and scanned Francis’ face. It was his aim to find out how far this messenger was sent by a petticoat, and to set him against his mistress. He had chosen his words with exquisite cunning, and he awaited the effect. Nor was he disappointed. The young man’s face, to his huge irritation, flushed deeply, and he seemed suddenly bereft of words. His reason told him that such confusion was unwarrantable; it was no news to him that Mrs. Murray, the admired of all, had a train of gallants at her bidding. But the fact had never appeared to him so real; he had felt, he knew not why, that in this woman he had a private interest; his goddess seemed tarnished by a hint of common worship. Lord Lovat’s plan had been well calculated, but he had just missed by a hair a proper estimate of his companion’s character. Instead of the irritation with the world and despair which such news would have roused in the common man of sentiment, in Francis it merely awakened a deeper humility, a keener feeling of his own insignificance, a more hopeless devotion. The thought that his sentiment was shared by many showed the vast distance which separated her high virtue from his folly. Somehow the shaft had not only missed its mark, but performed the very work which its sender dreaded.

  “I have spoken to you as friend to friend, Mr. Francis Birkenshaw,” said Lovat. “Ye see my unhappy position. An alien to those in authority, prevented by my weakness from vigorous action, I must decide one way or another for the clan. Ye see the responsibility and the hardship.”

  Francis muttered assent, but his wits were busy with another question, — whither all this talk was tending. He had his clear mission to win this lord to the Prince’s cause, but the problem had now a different aspect. With much trepidation he waited on the issue of affairs.

  But Lovat had little disposition to give a ready answer. “Have ye any news for my ear?” he asked. “I have heard of the victory at Preston Pans, but I would like to ken if any mair lords have risen, if England is yet ripe, and if the army has gotten an increase.”

  Francis could say nothing but that Lord Lovat appeared as well informed as himself.

  “Tut, tut, but this is a difficult business,” said the old man, and he stared once more into the fire. “See here, sir, you see the wretched way I am placed. God knows I hold my country’s welfare next to my own soul. I am ower auld to care a straw about which king has his backside on the throne; all I seek is that the land prosper. But it seems to me that the scales are about level. James would make a good king, and there’s nae doubt but he has the richt on his side. Geordie makes a tolerable show, and if Chairlie is no strong enough to ding Geordie down, why, there Geordie will sit. If I thocht that there was a fair chance, I would set a’ my people off the morn to fecht for the Stuarts. If I was clearly persuaded that there was none, they would join the ither side with all despatch, that the rising might be the sooner quelled and peace restored. I am ower auld to take the field mysel’, and it’s for my poor feckless folk I maun consult. But the devil of it is that I canna make up my mind one way or anither. I live ower far out o’ the warld, and I’ve ower little news. My friends among the Jacobites are wi’ the Prince, my friends on the ither side, like the Lord President, are a’ in Edinburgh and like to be there for mony a day. Truth, I kenna where to turn,” and he looked to the other with an air of great perplexity.

  “On one matter I can ease your mind,” said Francis. “I overtook the Lord President on the road, and as he was some three hours before me, he will be at his house of Culloden ere now.”

  Lovat shot one sharp glance at the speaker. “Say ye sae,” said he. “Weel, I’m glad of it. But I fear ye maun be wrong, for Duncan in a time like this would come first to Castle Dounie. It was aye his way wi’ his auld friends.”

  At the words and look which accompanied them, Francis had some suspicion that the presence of the Lord President in the north was well enough known to his interlocutor. He declared bluntly that he knew the face and had made no mistake.

  “Weel, weel, we’ll let the matter be,” said Lovat. “If ye’re richt, sae muckle the better for me. But how can I make up my mind when I get such word as this?” and he reached his hand to a packet of papers. “Here is a memorandum from Culloden’s self with great news o’ King George’s forces and the peaceable and law-abiding spirit of the citizens of Edinburgh and the folk of the south. ‘My dear lord,’ he says, ‘I do assure you that the thing will be nipped in the bud, so I counsel you to take no rash steps.’ So says Mr. Duncan; but what says Lochiel? ‘All the land is with us; forbye there are ten thousand French to be landed immediately, while in England every house of distinction is all for us and our Prince.’ God, Mr. Birkenshaw, if ye had brought news to settle this kittle point, ye would have been an acceptable messenger.”

  Francis was in a quandary from which he saw no outlet. This man was clearly playing high for his own hand, but he had cloaked it cunningly under a pretence of love of clan and country. So he spoke guardedly. “You make the question difficult, my lord; but if the odds are so even, if whatever way you turn a like peril attends you, is there no sentiment to turn the scales?”

  Lovat nodded wisely. “There ye are right,” he said. “I have a sentiment for the old house, which is ever tugging against my prudence. When I heard the news o’ Preston Pans I was daft. I cast my hat on the ground and drank damnation to the White Horse o’ Hanover, and this very day I had seven hundred men drilled on the green, a’ wi’ their white cockades and springs o’ yew in their bonnets. Were I no a discreet and weel-principled man, the clan would ere now have been marching over Corryarrick.”

  Francis spoke with rising irritation. “You see that I can advise you nothing, my lord. My opinion on the enterprise is my own, but I am here with a clear message. Are you willing to take the step and trust your fortunes and your clan’s to God and the Prince, or will I take back the answer that my Lord Lovat is old and timid and prefers to bide at hame?”

  “Na, you will do no siccan thing. I was but talking the matter over in a’ its bearings, for my mind was made up lang syne. I am faun in years, but my spirit is not quenched, and it will never be said that the chief o’ the Frasers was feared to take a chance. But I am no young hot-head to rin at the sound of a trumpet, and my habit of due consideration is strong in all things. Just rax me that pen, Mr. Birkenshaw, and I will write the Secretary the word ye want.”

  The old lord mended a quill and wrote diligently for some minutes, while Francis watched the great mask-like face with a mixture of admiration and distrust. He dimly guessed at the purpose of the whole talk, and this sudden decision did not increase his faith. By and by the writer finished and looked up with a twinkling eye. “Ye’re a trusted servant of the Cause, Mr. Birkenshaw, so ye’ll be preevileged to hear a bit o’ my epistle. Am I to add any kind messages about yoursel’? Ye will see that I have omitted no one of the flowers o’ sentiment which ye so admire.” And he read: —

  “I solemnly protest, dear sir, that it was the greatest grief of my life that my indisposition and severe sickness kept me from going south to my dear brave prince, and never parting with him while I was able to stand, but venture my old bones with pleasure in his service and before his eyes, while I had the last breath within me. But I send my eldest son, the hopes of my family and the darling of my life, a youth about nineteen years old, who was just going abroad to finish his education, after having learned with applause what is taught in our Scots universities, and was graduate Master of Arts. But instead of sending him abroad to complete his education, I have sent him to venture the last drop of his blood in the glorious prince’s service; and as he is extremely beloved, and the darling of the clan, all the gentlemen of my name (which, I thank God, are numerous and look well and are always believed to be as stout as their neighbours) are gone with him.

  “What do ye think o’ that effort in your own line, sir?”

  “I am not sure that I take your meaning,” said Francis. “You cannot go yourself, but you will send the clan under your son?”

  “That i
s my meaning,” said Lovat, “and what do you think of it?”

  “Why, that it is most honourable and generous,” said Francis, in incredulous tones.

  The old lord looked at him for a little, then pursed up his mouth and smiled. “Honour and generosity,” he said, “are qualities o’ my house, and we’ll let that subject alane. But I look to reap the reward o’ my action, sir. This is no wild clanjamphray sent down from the hills, but a great and weel-disciplined clan wi’ my own son at its head. If the rising ends in naething, then there’s my poor folk at the mercy o’ their enemies, when they were sent out maybe against their will by their chief, who a’ the while was weel disposed to both governments. If, again, the Prince gets his desires, there is honour and glory for man and master. I put both possibilities before you as a man o’ some sense and experience, and I trust that if the first case come about before ye get the length o’ the Prince’s army, this letter whilk I have written will never get further than your pocket. And, further, that supposing you have delivered it, you will do your best to see it destroyed.”

  Francis stared in downright amazement. This was an extreme of brazen audacity which he had not reckoned with. The man’s eyes were peering into his, and every line of that strange face spoke of daring and wit. “But,” he stammered, “the clan will be out, and that will involve you without any scrawl of writing.”

  “Precisely,” said Lovat, “the clan will be out, but perhaps it may be in spite o’ their loyal chief, who sits at hame lamenting their defection and the woful ingratitude of children.” His eyes were filled with sardonic mirth as he watched the changing face of his companion.

  But Francis was already roused to keen suspicion, and he found at once voice and a cool bearing.

  “Your methods are simple, my lord, and do credit to your politic mind. I will not say that they are dishonourable, for I have no reason to judge you. You have talked to me of your forethought for your people, which does you credit, and if this were the only motive your policy might be blameless. But I have heard talk of a dukedom for the lord of Lovat if all turned out well.”

  “Ay, and what of that?” asked the old man, with great calmness.

  “Why, this,” said Francis, “that if a man have recourse to tricks for the sake of others, he is pardoned, but if for his own advantage, he gets a more doubtful name.”

  “Meaning?” said the other.

  “Meaning,” said Francis, “that men use the ugly word treachery.”

  “Your knowledge of affairs is excellent, Mr. Birkenshaw, and what do ye say yoursel’ in the matter?”

  “Why,” said Francis, “if you press me, I will say that I have heard that there were such virtues as honour and loyalty in the world.”

  The speaker was astonished at the issue of his words. The old man’s face grew white with rage, and he half raised himself in his seat. Then he fell back with a cry as the pain twinged, and lay scowling at Francis, mumbling strange oaths. “You talk to me o’ honour,” he cried, “me, a very provost in the virtue, who for threescore years have lived wi’ gentlemen o’ the highest repute. And a whippit bitch o’ Edinburgh lad comes here and preaches in my lug about honour! Honour,” and he laughed shrilly, “as if honour werena mair than the punctiliousness o’ a wheen conceited bairns.”

  Then as his anger passed, his face softened and he looked quizzically at Francis. “Ye are doubtless a mirror o’ all the virtues yoursel’, Mr. Birkenshaw, since ye talk about them sae weel. But I thought I heard word o’ a daft lad in the publick o’ Clachamharstan, no three days syne, whose tongue wagged to a different tune. The description I got o’ him wasna unlike yoursel’.”

  Francis grew hotly uncomfortable as the memory of his folly came back to him, but it roused his anger and obstinacy. He was no more to be laughed out of his purpose than terrified by a dotard’s threats. So he looked squarely at his tormentor with no sign of irritation.

  Then Lovat changed his tone and spoke kindly. “Ye are a sensible man, Mr. Birkenshaw, and gifted wi’ some subtlety o’ mind. I will do ye an honour I am little used to do to folk, and explain my exact views on this matter. It is possible that I may desire safety for my folk and honour for myself both with the highest intentions. I may have thoughts of the great old glory of my name and seek to see it bright once more in these latter days. I may have a great and patriotic policy of my own which I seek to work out through the clatter and fechtin’ o’ Whig and Jacobite. I may feel my own power, and ken that through me and me alone a better time can come for this auld land. I may believe all this and mair, Mr. Birkenshaw; and who is to blame me if I use what means I can summon? I have heard the word that the end justifees the means; and I can tell ye, sir, there are things better than honour, and these are knowledge o’ the times and a great love for an oppressed people.”

  The words were spoken in a low, soft voice and with an accent of deep pathos. The effect was nicely calculated, but once more it missed by a hair. Francis was touched in his emotions, but surprise at the recent scheme of bold impudence was still strong upon him. Earlier in the night the old lord had moved him almost to tears, but somehow this boastful romantic stuff left him untouched.

  “I will bring this letter to the Secretary Murray,” said he, “whatever be the upshot. On no other conditions can I take it from your hands.”

  Lovat sighed deeply, sealed the missive, and gave it to the other. “I maun e’en be content,” he said, “and I trust that God will prosper the richt.”

  Then his whole demeanour changed, and he lay back and laughed long and heartily. “Sic a warld!” he cried. “Here’s a young man thinks me a traitor when he serves Murray o’ Brochtoun, who could give lessons to the Deil. Well-a-day, Mr. Birkenshaw, get ye gone and be damned to ye for a sour pernickety law-lander. Keep this meeting weel in mind, for be sure it’s the first and last time ye ever will forgather wi’ a man o’ intellect. But, dear, dear, Simon, ye’re back at your auld boasting ways, whilk is a bad example to the young man. Tak a glass o’ wine, Mr. Birkenshaw, and one o’ my men will show ye where ye are to sleep. But stop, man, ye winna get through the Fraser country in sic a time without a bit word from me. This will pass you,” and he gave him one of the many rings from his fingers. “Take it and keep it in memory of auld Simon Fraser, who some way or ither took a fancy to ye. But I doubt, sir, ye’ve mista’en your trade. Ye should hae been a minister and a prop o’ the Kirk.”

  And with the queer cackling laughter of age still in his ears, Francis left the room.

  CHAPTER X. Waste Places.

  The next morning before the crowd of guests were well awake, Francis had left the haughlands which lined the Firth and ridden once more into the land of storms. The image of the old lord was still vivid in his memory. Every word in their conversation, every look of that strange face, was clear in his mind, and he rehearsed the tale a dozen times in the first hour of his journey. Plainly he had been of sufficient consequence to be worth conciliating. This in itself gave him pleasure; but to temper it he had the other thought that Lovat in some way had heard of his conduct at the inn and had thought his character a fit mark for cajolery. The air of powerful cunning, of sinister wit, which the great lord seemed to bear, had left in his mind a sense of his own futility. This man had been pleased to play with him as a cat with a mouse, to talk him fairly and treat him well; but the same man, had he so willed, could have crushed him like a child. For a little he tried to fathom his own political feeling, but could find no more than a personal sentiment. The enterprise had no charms for him; he had as little care for the Prince’s success as for the Prince’s person; and he saw with cruel exactness the quixoty of the whole business. But he had no mind to see any man play false to a cause with which he had linked himself; and he swore that Lovat would find himself bound to his promise. If he could reach Edinburgh before the army left for the South, it would be possible to give Murray the letter and so bind the clan to follow the Prince’s standard whether the wind blew fair or foul. If he were to
o late, some reverse might happen which should send the Frasers and their chief to the arms of the Government. Clearly the best policy was speed.

  Yet in his feelings to Lovat much kindliness was mixed with awe. That huge and intricate face had humour and rich nature in its crannies. He remembered the infinite changes of his speech, his heroical sentiments, his coarseness, his essays in the pathetic. The whole attitude of the man awakened a kindred sentiment in his own heart. He liked his great vigour, his rhodomontade, his palpable and masterful strength. This was the man whom a month ago he would have worshipped as the perfection of the loftily unscrupulous. Now though he was somewhat estranged from such an admiration and there was something repellant in what would once have been wholly attractive, yet enough survived to make the figure pleasing to his memory. He had a mind to help the cause which he had espoused, but if the interests did not clash, he was a partisan of Lovat’s. The great lord’s ring glistened on his finger, a garnet cut with a cluster of berries, and as he looked at it he felt for its giver almost the affection of a clansman.

  When he crossed the river at the neck of the loch and entered the steep glens of Stratherick, he found his purpose of speed hindered. The road, which had hitherto been like a rough carriage-track, was now suddenly transformed into a bridle-path among rocks and heather, sometimes obscured in bog, as often winding steeply along a hillside where a stumble might mean death. The morning had been cloudy, and now a wind from the south-east brought up great banks of wrack and obscured hill and valley. Francis had no desire to follow the devious track he had come by, for he had been told of a better path leading into the upper Spey valley and thence into the Athole country and the head-waters of the Garry. He had planned to stay the night at the house of a cousin of Lovat’s among the wilds at the head of Nairn, but the place was difficult to come at and needed clear weather. At the first sign of storm his spirits dropped, for craggy heights when cloaked in rain-clouds had still a dreary effect upon his soul. Now, as he looked, he saw the whole land grow wilder and bleaker. The glen up which the bridle-path mounted opened on a flat space of moorland, whence ran the waters of another stream on a new watershed. Down this burn lay his path, but to find it was a hard matter, when there were few marks of a track and the traveller was supposed to be guided by hill-tops invisible. Just at the edge of the moss the first drizzle of rain began, and Francis looked blankly into a wall of grey vapour, rising sheer from the plashy heath and merging in the lowering sky. The air was bitter cold, and he was ill-provided for a winter journey, seeing that he had ridden from the city at short notice. The man was hardy and bold, but mere hardihood is not enough to find the track in an unknown moorish country. So, bewildered and all but afraid, he set himself to grope his way across the desert.