The Black Colonel

by James Milne

  _VIII.--The Conquering Hero_

  It is unbelievable how the sweet face of a lass, or her soft figure,with its air of passion song, will come between two men and make anygreat affairs of state dividing them, seem as nothing by comparison.The Black Colonel and I would hardly, as individuals, have quarrelledabout Stuart and Guelph, knowing well the value which Stuart and Guelphwould have put on us. But with Marget Forbes as prize it was anotheraffair altogether, for, in her, a whole bouquet of calling qualitiesunited.

  Her heart, so far, was all in the open joy of living, though in thetroublous times which surrounded her and her family, she found burdenenough of sorrow. She was a flower of the heather, opening late, likeit, but perhaps with the same red, rich bloom, for it was not hard todivine that elements of high possibility were enclosed in her youngwomanhood. It gave you, for all its simplicity, a sense of latenttreasure, when it should fully open, even, it might be of surprise toherself.

  Seventeen! they say, when girlhood is trembling, quivering on theportal of womanhood, a world of mysteries. But it is not half sodramatic as twenty-five, when a woman, if she be rightly healthy inmind and body, comes into woman's estate, feeling, desiring, someearlier, some later, but roughly then. Peril is there, as well asbeauty, for then all the Margets in the wide world are pulling at thesilky bonds of sex, thinking these will stretch and stretch, only tofind, perhaps, that there is a strain at which they must break orsurrender.

  If the insurgency of newly-found womanhood can be fitly employed all iswell, but remember that most women are, in thought, rebels for romance.Nature, too, runs fullest in the veins of those who live with hernaturally, aloof from the veneer of society. Nature is lusty inNature's lap, and she mothered our Corgarff without let or hindrance,in sun and in snow, Marget Forbes included.

  You are to suppose a region far removed even from such a niggardcommerce of life as there was then in the Scottish Highlands. It issixty miles from the warming salt-wash of the sea, and has winds nearlyas cold as those that blow from the Arctic. This is because it standshigh, and is so bare of trees that they blow unbroken over its area.They catch you with their ice tang in them, untouched by long,sheltering woods, or soft, rolling dales, and they make your facetingle into red and white, the blushes of Mother Nature.

  That is the winter, when the land is often covered with snow, and thelittle burns of the hills are frozen into snake-like icicles. If thepicture is hard, it is nevertheless beautiful, looked out upon from thecomfort of good clothes and a full stomach. It invites you to exploreit, to follow that far track ending on the snow-line of Morven, or yonother, which dips and is lost in the riven sides of Lochnagar. The airsings through your lungs with the force of strong drink and makes youhearty. You feel monarch of all you survey, even if it be not worthhaving, which is the most stirring feeling a landscape can yield.

  Nor would there be much to divide your monarchy; only a chimney,reeking blue into the grey sky, from a fire of peat, a few sheep, orsome hardly [Transcriber's note: hardy?] cattle turned out in theheight of the day to gather what scraps of food they might, a pair ofwandering red deer at the same hard game of finding a living, or ahare, grown bluish-white for the winter-time, to resemble the friendlysnow, scampering off before the snap of your foot on the heather. Whenthe rigour of winter lies upon the land, men and women can do littlebut keep their beasts alive, and themselves sit round the fire, passingthe slow time of day with what gossip may be made.

  We froze within the old walls of Corgarff Castle, for they were timeand weather worn. Gales had beaten them, snowstorms had driven atthem, and rains had lashed them, until they were corrugated withfurrows and hollows, like the face of an ancient man. It is curioushow age, whether in a face or in a building, takes on the samemilestones of hollow and hillock, to record the march of time and thedents in a soul.

  But come the summer in Corgarff, and the far-flung ranges of hill losetheir white severity and assume the kindlier mantle of sproutingheather and green grass; the ptarmigan flies back to its heights abovethe snow-line, content with the thin picking and the splendid peacewhich summer there provides; the red deer no more falls hungrily uponthe lower pastures, with the roaring fight gone out of the stags andthe hinds left bleating to their own company, like so many widowedwomen of the wild.

  Instead, the thin sheep of the clansmen, each with its owner's brand toidentify it, wander forth to the common grazings, glad that the bloomof living is on Nature again. That brings a panorama of scenery whichlights the eye and braces the heart and mind, hills which run intomountains, mountains which run into the skies, all proclaiming thesplendour of God.

  Now, I have tried to tell you this, not very well, perhaps, because oursurroundings in life have much to do with our actions, and the two setsof circumstance must be comprehended together, especially in a sparselypeopled countryside. You unconsciously take your dispositions from theatmosphere, and you cannot be certain always where you may either beginor end. Thus a simple Highland ball which we soldiers organized atCorgarff Castle, to while away a night, and be a token of friendlinesstowards our neighbours, developed a deep import in my true story.

  It was natural for me to smooth and sweeten, as far as I could, therelations between those in formal authority whom I represented, and thelocal clan-folk. To that end I organized this dance in the ancientCastle, and made it known that anybody and everybody would be welcome.Any misgiving I had about the response, was balanced by my knowledge ofthe Highland fondness for dancing. It has been in the Celtic bloodfrom the beginning of time; and gillie-callum, over the swords, thethrobbing, squeezing, square reel, the sultry Highland Schottische, andthe rest of the figures, will last until the last trump sounds the lastmorning.

  You dance for the joy of life, if you are born in a land of the sun,and in a land of cold you dance for the joy which springs from warmth.It is a primal expression of feeling, and the Scottish Highlanders havealways had beautiful dances, and danced them well; dances with themusic of sex in them, though they might not admit it, or did not knowit. Religion and dancing have often been the only things in theirlives, apart from the common round of fighting and working, when theycared for work. Thus, my ball, though it might be an affair of theenemy, had a subtle call to the Highland blood, especially in the women.

  My first invitation was to Marget Forbes and her mother, because, if Icould only persuade them to be present everything would be well. Letthe ladies of the ancient great house come, and there was no reason whythe commonalty should stay away. The times had been sorrowful formother and daughter, as the black they wore betokened, but, I wrotegently, "We must let the dead bury their dead, and try and build somebridge on which the living may meet."

  So it was arranged that Marget, the young chieftainess of the CorgarffForbeses, with her mother, should open the ball. This news was out aweek before the event, and we soon learned that, as I had thought, weshould have a good muster of guests. I took my soldier men entirelyinto my confidence, and they grew keen to make the dance a success,being kindly fellows and open to softer adventures, as well as theother kind.

  They were collectively to be hosts, and whoever crossed the doorstep onthe night was to be received without prejudice and with all honour.Everybody should have what we could give to eat and drink, and whenthey set home again it would be from a warm welcome and a sinceregood-bye. Ah! if I could only have foreseen one acceptance of thatgeneral invitation to the countryside; but I didn't, and how could I?Men are not gods in wisdom, and how dull life would be it they were;how dull especially for their women-folk who, thanks be, are not alwaysangels, except of light, and even they know how to darken the radiance.

  The famous night came, and in good time came also Marget and hermother, with their small group of servants from the Dower House. Ourlargest room, where the dance was to be, a sort of hall of the Castle,was filling with robust Highlanders in tartans, and with theirwomen-folk in their best gowns. Personally I felt easy and happy whenI shook Marget's ha
nd, saying, "It is kind of you to help me, andperhaps between us we are doing good." Then I conducted her and hermother to seats on a low platform at the further end of the room andquietly ordered the dance to begin.

  A brace of fiddlers, seated in a corner, were scraping their catgutinto tune for the music, while, outside, a piper was playing a Highlandgathering. The Scots bagpipes yield their real melody in the open air,and only then, and to me, from a little distance, they sounded loud andrarely that cold star-lit night. The piper's business was thisoverture, and presently, when it was completed, he would march in, asgrand as you like, and pipe us the first reel, in which Marget, I hadfondly thought, was to be my partner. Oh, everything was very wellarranged, and nothing happened as had been arranged, which is, perhaps,the peculiarity of life, when we reflect on it as a perpetual drama.

  Presently I heard a slight commotion, as if something had happenedunexpectedly, and then the hoof of a horse stamping the ground. Thesea of heads in the room, pulled by curiosity, bent towards the door,and I realized that some surprise was approaching.

  At that moment the piper, a Forbes man, to whom the honour of playinghad been given, struck up his reel and strode in upon us. He was big,broad, imposing, with his kilted figure, and he seemed to halt, inorder that we might admire him, for a good piper and a peacock arevain; but this was merely my fancy. What I saw, immediately followinghim, was no fancy but staggering truth; it was the Black Colonel!

  Yes, the Black Colonel in full Highland regalia, bowing and nodding tothe people about him, who courtesied back with an easy homage, for theyknew him instantly; the Black Colonel as large as life, eminentlypleased with himself, taking possession of the place and the occasion,as if he were a conquering hero coming into his own; the Black Colonel,Jock Farquharson of Inverey, a chief among the men of whom it has beenwritten that:

  "Brak loose and to the hills go they."

  If I was stunned, the piper was not, for he walked up the room with adeliberation which the quick step of his tune did not warrant. Behindhim paced the Black Colonel, and as he came nearer to myself and theladies, I saw them turn as if to ask me whether this was in theprogramme. So far, the Black Colonel had not let his eyes catch ours.He gave himself to the crowd, as a well-graced actor gives himself tothe house when it applauds him. He had the music on his side, too,for, at the platform, the piper stepped aside into a corner, stillblowing hard, and this brought the Black Colonel full to the front,immediately beside us. Thereupon he slowly bent in salutation toMarget and her mother, while everybody watched and waited, wonderingwhat was to happen now.

  "Ladies," he said softly, but distinctly, "I hope that if to-night Ihave come unbidden by our friend, Captain Gordon, I am not unwelcome toyou, aye, and even to him. We are all kins-folk, and I wished tomanifest a kindly feeling by joining in this meeting. I also desiredto make fuller acquaintance, than has hitherto been possible, with twokins-women who have suffered hardly in times which, let us hope fromthe promise of this gathering, are about to be forgotten. It wouldshow my boldness forgiven if I might open the ball with MistressMarget, for Captain Gordon, as host, will wish to conduct her mother."

  Again the Black Colonel bowed, as if he were master of the situation,which, in fact, he fully appeared to be. Confident and gracious, heoffered Marget his arm, and she took it mechanically, such being theforce of suggestion, exercised by a strong man's mind, especially withmany eyes looking on. Mechanically, also, I held out my arm toMarget's mother and, while our small world still wondered, I foundmyself in a foursome reel with the Black Colonel. But he was Marget'spartner!

  He talked merrily to her when the drowning music would let him, eventhough she scarcely replied, being still in the custody of hissurprise. He was out to please, and he undoubtedly was handsome, or,at all events, striking in his tartans, and he danced perfectly. Whydeny it, even if it had not been patent to every onlooking, wonderingeye? He made a mightily fine picture, and he knew it, though he didnot spoil the picture by showing he knew it.

  Marget was in a simple black gown with a ruffle of white French lace ather neck and a flush in her cheeks. Her black hair was twinednaturally about her head, which she carried high, so I told myself, asif in defiance of the Black Colonel, while she had to be his partnerand prisoner. She glanced at me once or twice with an amused twinklein her eye, thinking, I suppose, of her bold capture from the host ofthe evening, my unlucky self. Some women are a blessing, others keepyou guessing, somebody will say, and Marget, I judged, even in thewhirl of that reel, could be both, if she cared to try.

  Quicker time the music made it, many a foot keeping stroke, and quickertime we had to make it. You know the romp of a Highland reel at thedouble, how it causes the blood to sing in the veins and the feet tojig. Marget's mother had been a fine dancer, but, as she whispered tome, she was no longer young. Marget herself had inherited all hermother's ease and grace of carriage, and she had her own spirit and go.The music and the motion caught her into forgetfulness of everythingelse, and she danced with a grace and a swing which were bewitching.

  She had, again I was bound to admit, a complete dancing partner in theBlack Colonel, a fellow of natural and acquired accomplishments. Hehad his clean ankles and elegant uprightness from his Highlandforbears, and he had got his polish of deportment when he was among theEnglish Jacobites in France. The result was that he danced all of apiece, with as near the poetry of movement as a man might attain, andthen there was the intimate, intriguing ripple of his tartans.

  Myself, I was quite a good dancer, but, if I may be my own apologist,not so showy a dancer as the Black Colonel. While I could hold my ownwith most men in the Highland dances, probably surpass many, I couldnot fill a dancing floor as he did, with his natural air of drama. Awoman who herself dances well, sighs for a fit partner, but give her inthat partner a personality drawing a general homage to them both, andshe is twice blessed. After all, she is a woman, with the woman'sprayer for attention, for being, once in a way, the centre of apicture, as she is on her wedding day, the Day of Promise, whateverfollows.

  An early episode in the life of the Black Colonel had associated himwith the rollicking "Reel O'Tulloch," a dance originated in Strathdee.His people had gone to church, so went the tale, but, the weather beingwintry, no parson arrived. Seeking warmth, they began to blow on theirhands, then to shuffle with their feet on the floor, and presently,when somebody fetched a fiddler, this broke into a reel. A bottle withinspiration in it was brought from the change-house near by, and fasterwent the music and faster grew the fun.

  When young Jock Farquharson, hearing of this, came on the scene, the"Reel O'Tulloch" was being danced "ower the kirk and ower the kirk,"and voices cried:

  "John, come kiss me now, John, come kiss me now, John, come kiss me by and by And mak' nae mair adow."

  One of the guests at our later, different dance, in Corgarff Castle,must have remembered this, for suddenly there was a sort of "soughing"of the song, then a singing of it, and it was positively roared out bythe assembly when the music stopped and the dance ended. I understoodthe application and the invitation which were intended, and I caught alook in Marget's flushed face, as if she also understood. Her motherglanced at the roystering singers, then at the Black Colonel and, withan apology for leaving me, went and stood beside her daughter, themothering instinct of protection called into action.

  "Thank you, Mistress Marget," I heard Jock Farquharson say, in his mostmelodious tone, "you have been kind to me, and I will hope to thank youagain. And thank you, Madame," he said, bowing low to her mother, "forletting me lift my head to-night, as it has not been lifted for long.I shall not forget to be grateful and, I hope, to deserve yourgood-will."

  Then he made me, the official host, a last, low bow with a mockery,subtle but noticeable, in it, walked down the room, saluting and beingsaluted on every side, and was gone. Our friendly ball, from which Ihad expected so much, died away to the clink of Mack's galloping hoofs,an unsettling r
hythm.