by John Buchan
Like a stag from covert Leithen leaped forth, upsetting Cameron with his sudden bound. He broke through the tangle of hazel and wild raspberries, and stayed not on the order of his going. His pace downhill had always been remarkable, and Cameron’s was no match for it. Soon he had gained twenty yards, then fifty, but he had no comfort in his speed, for somewhere ahead were more gillies and he was being forced straight on Haripol, which was thick with the enemy.
The only plan in his head was to make for the Reascuill, which as he was aware flowed at this part of its course in a deepcut gorge. He had a faint hope that, once there, he might find a place to lie up in till the darkness, for he knew that the Highland gillie is rarely a rock-climber. But the place grew more horrible as he continued. He was among rhododendrons now, and well-tended grass walks. Yes, there was a rustic arbour and what looked like a summer-seat. The beastly place was a garden. In another minute he would be among flower-pots and vineries with twenty gardeners at his heels. But the river was below – he could hear its sound – so, like a stag hard pressed by hounds, he made for the running water. A long slither took him down a steep bank of what had once been foxgloves, and he found his feet on a path.
And there, to his horror, were two women.
By this time his admirable wind was considerably touched, and the sweat was blinding his eyes, so that he did not see clearly. But surely one of the two was known to him.
Janet rose to the occasion like a bird. As he stood blinking before her she laughed merrily.
‘Sir Edward,’ she cried, ‘where in the world have you been? You’ve taken a very rough road.’ Then she turned to Lady Claybody. ‘This is Sir Edward Leithen. He is staying with us and went out for an enormous walk this morning. He is always doing it. It was lucky you came this way, Sir Edward, for we can give you a lift home.’
Lady Claybody was delighted, she said, to meet one of whom she had heard so much. He must come back to the house at once and have tea and see her husband, ‘I call this a real romance,’ she cried. ‘First Mr Palliser-Yeates – and then Sir Edward Leithen dropping like a stone from the hillside.’
Leithen was beginning to recover himself, ‘I’m afraid I was trespassing,’ he murmured. ‘I tried a short cut and got into difficulties. I hope I didn’t alarm you coming down that hill like an avalanche. I find it the easiest way.’
The mystified Cameron stood speechless, watching his prey vanishing in the company of his mistress.
FOURTEEN
Haripol – Wounded and Missing
Lamancha watched Palliser-Yeates disappear along the hillside, and then returned to the hollow top of the Beallach, which was completely cut off from view on either side. All that was now left of the mist was a fleeting vapour twining in scarves on the highest peaks, and the cliffs of Sgurr Dearg and Sgurr Mor towered above him in gleaming stairways. The drenched cloudberries sparkled in the sunlight, and the thousand little rivulets, which in the gloom had been hoarse with menace, made now a pleasant music. Lamancha’s spirits rose as the world brightened. He proposed to wait for a quarter of an hour till Wattie with the stag was well down the ravine and Palliser-Yeates had secured the earnest attention of the navvies. Then he would join Wattie and help him with the beast, and within a couple of hours he might be wallowing in a bath at Crask, having bidden John Macnab a long farewell.
Meantime he was thirsty, and laid himself on the ground for a long drink at an icy spring, leaving his rifle on a bank of heather.
When he rose with his eyes dim with water he had an unpleasing surprise. A man stood before him, having in his hands his rifle, which he pointed threateningly at the rifle’s owner.
‘ ‘Ands up,’ the man shouted. He was a tall fellow in navvy’s clothes, with a shock head of black hair, and a week’s beard – an uncouth figure with a truculent eye.
‘Put that down,’ said Lamancha. ‘You fool, it’s not loaded. Hand it over. Quick!’
For answer the man swung it like a cudgel.
‘ ‘Ands up,’ he repeated. ‘ ‘Ands up, you -, or I’ll do you in.’
By this time Lamancha had realised that his opponent was the peripatetic navvy, whom Palliser-Yeates had reported. An ugly customer he looked, and resolute to earn Claybody’s promised reward.
‘What do you want?’ he asked. ‘You’re behaving like a lunatic.’
‘I want you to ‘ands up and come along o’ me.’
‘Who on earth do you take me for?’
‘You’re the poacher – Macnab. I seen you, and I seen the old fellow and the stag. You’re Macnab, I reckon, and you’re the – I’m after. Up with your ‘ands and look sharp.’
Mendacity was obviously out of the question, so Lamancha tried conciliation.
‘Supposing I am Macnab – let’s talk a little sense. You’re being paid for this job, and the man who catches me is to have something substantial. Well, whatever Lord Claybody has promised you I’ll double it if you let me go.’
The man stared for a second without answering, and then his face crimsoned. But it was not with avarice but with wrath.
‘No, you don’t,’ he cried. ‘By -, you don’t come over me that way. I’m not the kind as sells his boss. I’m a white man, I am, and I’ll – well let you see it. ‘Ands up, you -, and march. I’ve a – good mind to smash your ‘ead for tryin’ to buy me.’
Lamancha looked at the fellow, his shambling figure contorted by hard toil out of its natural balance, his thin face, his hot, honest eyes, and suddenly felt ashamed. ‘I beg your pardon,’ he grunted. ‘I oughtn’t to have said that. I had no right to insult you. But of course I refuse to surrender. You’ve got to catch me.’
He followed his words by a dive to his right, hoping to get between the man and the Sgurr Mor cliffs. But the navvy was too quick for him, and he had to retreat baffled. Lamancha was beginning to realise that the situation was really awkward. This fellow was both active and resolved; even if he gave him the slip he would be pursued down to the Doran, and the destination of the stag would be revealed ... But he was by no means sure that he could give him the slip. He was already tired and cramped, and he had never been noted for his speed, like Leithen and Palliser-Yeates ... He thought of another way, for in his time he had been a fair amateur middle-weight.
‘You’re an Englishman. What about settling the business with our fists? Put the rifle down, and we’ll stand up together.’
The man spat sarcastically. ‘Ain’t it likely?’ he sneered. ‘Thank you kindly, but I’m takin’ no risks this trip. You’ve got to ‘ands up and let me tie ‘em so as you’re safe and then come along peaceable. If you don’t I’ll ‘it you as ‘ard as Gawd’ll let me.’
There seemed to be nothing for it but a scrap, and Lamancha, with a wary eye on the clubbed rifle, waited for his chance. He must settle this fellow so that he should be incapable of pursuit – a nice task for a respectable Cabinet Minister getting on in life. There was a pool beside his left foot, which was the source of one of the burns that ran down into the Sanctuary. Getting this between him and his adversary, he darted towards one end, checked, turned, and made to go round the other. The navvy struck at him with the rifle, and narrowly missed his head. Then he dropped the weapon, made a wild clutch, gripped Lamancha by the coat, and with a sound of rending tweed dragged him to his arms. The next moment the two men were locked in a very desperate and unscientific wrestling bout.
It was a game Lamancha had never played in his life before. He was a useful boxer in his way, but of wrestling he was utterly ignorant, and so, happily, was the navvy. So it became a mere contest of brute strength, waged on difficult ground with boulders, wells, and bog-holes adjacent. Lamancha had an athletic, well-trained body, the navvy was powerful but ill-trained; Lamancha was tired with eight or nine hours’ scrambling, his opponent had also had a wearing morning; but Lamancha had led a regular and comfortable life, while the navvy had often gone supperless and had drunk many gallons of bad whisky. Consequently the latter, though the heavier
and more powerful man, was likely to fail first in a match of endurance.
At the start, indeed, he nearly won straightaway by the vigour of his attack. Lamancha cried out with pain as he felt his arm bent almost to breaking-point and a savage knee in his groin. The first three minutes it was anyone’s fight; the second three Lamancha began to feel a dawning assurance. The other’s breath laboured, and his sudden spasms of furious effort grew shorter and easier to baffle. He strove to get his opponent on to the rougher ground, while that opponent manoeuvred to keep the fight on the patch of grass, for it was obvious to him that his right course was to wear the navvy down. There were no rules in this game, and it would be of little use to throw him; only by reducing him to the last physical fatigue could he have him at his mercy, and be able to make his own terms.
Presently the early fury of the man was exchanged for a sullen defence. Lamancha was getting very distressed himself, for the navvy’s great boots had damaged his shins and torn away strips of stocking and skin, while his breath was growing deplorably short. The two staggered around the patch of grass, never changing grips, but locked in a dull clinch into which they seemed to have frozen. Lamancha would fain have broken free and tried other methods, but the navvy’s great hands held him like a vice, and it seemed as if their power, in spite of the man’s gasping, would never weaken.
In this preposterous stalemate they continued for the better part of ten minutes. Then the navvy, as soldiers say, resumed the initiative. He must have felt his strength ebbing, and in a moment of violent disquiet have decided to hazard everything. Suddenly Lamancha found himself forced away from the chosen ground and dragged into the neighbouring moraine. They shaved the pool, and in a second were stumbling among slabs and screes and concealed boulders. The man’s object was plain: if he could make his lighter antagonist slip he might force him down in a place from which it would not be easy to rise.
But it was the navvy who slipped. He lurched backward, tripping over a stone, and the two rolled into a cavity formed by a boulder which had been split by its fall from Sgurr Mor in some bygone storm. It was three or four feet of a fall, and Lamancha fell with him. There was a cry from the navvy, and the grip of his arms slackened.
Lamancha scrambled out and looked back into the hole where the man lay bunched up as if in pain.
‘Hurt?’ he asked, and the answer came back, garnished with much profanity, that it was his – leg.
‘I’m dashed sorry. Look here, this fight is off. Let me get you out and see what I can do for you.’
The man, sullen but quiescent, allowed himself to be pulled out and laid on a couch of heather. Lamancha had feared for the thigh or the pelvis and was relieved to find that it was a clean break below the knee, caused by the owner’s descent, weighted by his antagonist, on an ugly, sharp-edged stone. But, as he looked at the limp figure, haggard with toil and poor living, and realised that he had damaged it in the pitiful capital which was all it possessed, its bodily strength, he suffered from a pang of sharp compunction. He loathed John Macnab and all his works for bringing disaster upon a poor devil who had to earn his bread.
‘I’m most awfully sorry,’ he stammered. ‘I wouldn’t have had this happen for a thousand pounds . . .’ Then he broke off, for in the face now solemnly staring at him he recognised something familiar. Where had he seen that long crooked nose before and that cock of the eyebrows?
‘Stokes,’ he cried, ‘You’re Stokes, aren’t you?’ He recalled now the man who had once been his orderly, and whom he had last known as a smart troop sergeant.
The navvy tried to rise and failed. ‘You’ve got my name right, guv’nor,’ he said, but it was obvious that in his eyes there was no recognition.
‘You remember me – Lord Lamancha?’ He had it all now – the fellow who had been a son of one of Tommy Deloraine’s keepers – a decent fellow and a humorous, and a good soldier. It was like the cussedness of things that he should go breaking the leg of a friend.
‘Gawd!’ gasped the navvy, peering at the shameful figure of Lamancha, whose nether garments were now well advanced in raggedness and whose peat-begrimed face had taken on an added dirtiness from the heat of the contest. ‘I can’t ‘ardly believe it’s you, sir.’ Then, with many tropes of speech, he explained what, had he known, would have happened to Lord Claybody, before he interfered with the game of a gentleman as he had served under.
‘What brought you to this?’ Lamancha asked.
‘I’ve ‘ad a lot of bad luck, sir. Nothing seemed to go right with me after the war. I found the missus ‘ad done a bunk, and I ‘ad two kids on my ‘ands, and there weren’t no cushy jobs goin’ for the likes of me. Gentlemen everywhere was puttin’ down their ‘osses, and I ‘ad to take what I could get. So it come to the navvyin’ with me, like lots of other chaps. The Gov’ment don’t seem to care what ‘appens to us poor Gawd-forgotten devils, sir.’
The navvy stopped to cough, and Lamancha did not like the sound of it.
‘How’s your health?’ he asked.
‘Not so bad, barrin’ a bit of ‘oarseness.’
‘That explains a lot. You’ll have consumption if you don’t look out. If you had been the man you were five years ago you’d have had me on my back in two seconds ... I needn’t tell you, Stokes, that I’m dashed sorry about this, and I’ll do all I can to make it up to you. First, we must get that leg right.’
Lamancha began by retrieving the rifle. It was a light, double-barrelled express which fortunately could be taken to pieces. He had some slight surgical knowledge, and was able to set the limb, and then with strips of his handkerchief and the rifle-barrel to put it roughly into a splint. Stokes appeared to have gone without breakfast, so he was given the few sandwiches which remained in Lamancha’s pocket and a stiff dram from his flask. Soon the patient was reclining in comparative comfort on the heather, smoking Lamancha’s tobacco in an ancient stump of a pipe, while the latter, with heavy brows, considered the situation.
‘You ought to get to bed at once, for you’ve a devil of a bad cough, you know. And you ought to have a doctor to look after that leg properly, for this contraption of mine is a bit rough. The question is, how am I going to get you down? You can’t walk, and you’re too much of a heavy-weight for me to carry very far. Also I needn’t tell you that this hillside is not too healthy for me at present. I mean to go down it by crawling in the open and keeping to the gullies, but I can’t very well do that with you . . . It looks as if there is nothing for it but to wait till dark. Then I’ll nip over to Crask and send some men here with a stretcher.’
Mr Stokes declared that he was perfectly happy where he was, and deprecated the trouble he was giving.
‘Trouble,’ cried Lamancha, ‘I caused the trouble, and I’m going to see you through it.’
‘But you’ll get nabbed, sir, and there ain’t no bloomin’ good in my ‘avin’ my leg broke if Claybody’s going to nab you along of it. You cut off, sir, and never ‘eed me.’
‘I don’t want to be nabbed, but I can’t leave you . . . Wait a minute! If I followed Wattie – that is my stalker – down to the Doran I could send a message to Crask about a stretcher and men to carry it. I might get some food too. And then I’ll come back here, and we’ll bukk about Palestine till it’s time to go . . . It might be the best way . . .’
But, even as he spoke, further plans were put out of the question by the advent of six men who had come quietly through the Beallach from the Sanctuary, and had unostentatiously taken up positions in a circle around the two ex-antagonists. Lamancha had been so engaged in Stake’s affairs that he had ceased to remember that he was in enemy territory.
His military service had taught him the value of the offensive. The new-comers were, he observed, three navvies, two men who were clearly gillies, and a warm and breathless young man in a suit of a dapperness startling on a wild mountain. This young man was advancing towards him with a determined eye when Lamancha arose from his couch and confronted him.
&nb
sp; ‘Hullo!’ he cried cheerfully, ‘you come just in time. This poor chap here has had a smash – broken his leg – and I was wondering how I was to get him down the hill.’
Johnson Claybody stopped short. He had rarely seen a more disreputable figure than that which had risen from the heather – dissolute in garments, wild of hair, muddy beyond belief in countenance. Yet these dilapidated clothes had once, very long ago, been made by a good tailor, and the fellow was apparently some kind of a gentleman. He was John Macnab beyond doubt, for in his hand was the butt-end of a rifle. Now Johnson was the type of man who is miserable if he feels himself ill-clad or dirty, and discovers in a sense of tidiness a moral superiority. He rejoiced to have found his enemy, and an enemy over whom he felt at a notable advantage. But, unfortunately for him, no Merkland had ever been conscious of the appearance he represented or cared a straw about it. Lamancha in rags would have cheerfully disputed with an emperor in scarlet, and suffered no loss of confidence because of his garb, since he would not have given it a thought. What he was considering at the moment was the future of the damaged Stokes.
‘Who’s that?’ Johnson asked peremptorily, pointing to the navvy.
His colleagues hastened to inform him. ‘It’s Jim Stokes,’ one of the three navvies volunteered. ‘What ‘ave you been doing to yourself, Jim?’ And Macnicol added: ‘That’s the man that was to keep movin’ along this side o’ the hill, sir. I picked him, for he looked the sooplest’