by John Buchan
V
STREAMS OF WATER IN THE SOUTH
"As streams of water in the south, Our bondage, Lord, recall." --PSALM cxxvi. (Scots Metrical Version).
It was at the ford of the Clachlands Water in a tempestuous August,that I, an idle boy, first learned the hardships of the Lammas droving.The shepherd of the Redswirehead, my very good friend, and his threeshaggy dogs, were working for their lives in an angry water. The pathbehind was thronged with scores of sheep bound for the Gledsmuirmarket, and beyond it was possible to discern through the mist the fewdripping dozen which had made the passage. Between raged yards ofbrown foam coming down from murky hills, and the air echoed with theyelp of dogs and the perplexed cursing of men.
Before I knew I was helping in the task, with water lipping round mywaist and my arms filled with a terrified sheep. It was no light task,for though the water was no more than three feet deep it was swift andstrong, and a kicking hogg is a sore burden. But this was the onlyroad; the stream might rise higher at any moment; and somehow or otherthose bleating flocks had to be transferred to their fellows beyond.There were six men at the labour, six men and myself and all werecross and wearied and heavy with water.
I made my passages side by side with my friend the shepherd, andthereby felt much elated. This was a man who had dwelt all his days inthe wilds and was familiar with torrents as with his own doorstep. Nowand then a swimming dog would bark feebly as he was washed against us,and flatter his fool's heart that he was aiding the work. And so wewrought on, till by midday I was dead-beat, and could scarce staggerthrough the surf, while all the men had the same gasping faces. I sawthe shepherd look with longing eye up the long green valley, and mutterdisconsolately in his beard.
"Is the water rising?" I asked.
"It's no rising," said he, "but I likena the look o' yon big black cludupon Cairncraw. I doubt there's been a shoor up the muirs, and a shoorthere means twae mair feet o' water in the Clachlands. God help SandyJamieson's lambs, if there is."
"How many are left?" I asked.
"Three, fower,--no abune a score and a half," said he, running his eyeover the lessened flocks. "I maun try to tak twae at a time." So forten minutes he struggled with a double burden, and panted painfully ateach return. Then with a sudden swift look up-stream he broke off andstood up. "Get ower the water, every yin o' ye, and leave the sheep,"he said, and to my wonder every man of the five obeyed his word.
And then I saw the reason of his command, for with a sudden swift leapforward the Clachlands rose, and flooded up to where I stood an instantbefore high and dry.
"It's come," said the shepherd in a tone of fate, "and there's fifteenno ower yet, and Lord kens how they'll dae't. They'll hae to gangroond by Gledsmuir Brig, and that's twenty mile o' a differ. 'Deed,it's no like that Sandy Jamieson will get a guid price the morn for sicsair forfochen beasts."
Then with firmly gripped staff he marched stoutly into the tide till itran hissing below his armpits. "I could dae't alone," he cried, "butno wi' a burden. For, losh, if ye slippit, ye'd be in the Manor Poolafore ye could draw breath."
And so we waited with the great white droves and five angry men beyond,and the path blocked by a surging flood. For half an hour we waited,holding anxious consultation across the stream, when to us thus busiedthere entered a newcomer, a helper from the ends of the earth.
He was a man of something over middle size, but with a stoop forwardthat shortened him to something beneath it. His dress was raggedhomespun, the cast-off clothes of some sportsman, and in his arms hebore a bundle of sticks and heather-roots which marked his calling. Iknew him for a tramp who long had wandered in the place, but I couldnot account for the whole-voiced shout of greeting which met him as hestalked down the path. He lifted his eyes and looked solemnly and longat the scene. Then something of delight came into his eye, his facerelaxed, and flinging down his burden he stripped his coat and cametoward us.
"Come on, Yeddie, ye're sair needed," said the shepherd, and I watchedwith amazement this grizzled, crooked man seize a sheep by the fleeceand drag it to the water. Then he was in the midst, stepping warily,now up, now down the channel, but always nearing the farther bank. Atlast with a final struggle he landed his charge, and turned to journeyback. Fifteen times did he cross that water, and at the end his meanfigure had wholly changed. For now he was straighter and stronger, hiseye flashed, and his voice, as he cried out to the drovers, had in it atone of command. I marvelled at the transformation; and when at lengthhe had donned once more his ragged coat and shouldered his bundle, Iasked the shepherd his name.
"They ca' him Adam Logan," said my friend, his face still bright withexcitement, "but maist folk ca' him 'Streams o' Water.'"
"Ay," said I, "and why 'Streams of Water'?"
"Juist for the reason ye see," said he.
Now I knew the shepherd's way, and I held my peace, for it was clearthat his mind was revolving other matters, concerned most probably withthe high subject of the morrow's prices. But in a little, as wecrossed the moor toward his dwelling, his thoughts relaxed and heremembered my question. So he answered me thus:
"Oh, ay; as ye were sayin', he's a queer man Yeddie-aye been; guid kenswhaur he cam frae first, for he's been trampin' the countryside sinceever I mind, and that's no yesterday. He maun be sixty year, and yethe's as fresh as ever. If onything, he's a thocht dafter in hisongaein's, mair silent-like. But ye'll hae heard tell o' him afore?"I owned ignorance.
"Tut," said he, "ye ken nocht. But Yeddie had aye a queer crakin' forwaters. He never gangs on the road. Wi' him it's juist up yae glenand doon anither and aye keepin' by the burn-side. He kens every wateri' the warld, every bit sheuch and burnie frae Gallowa' to Berwick.And then he kens the way o' spates the best I ever seen, and I've heardtell o' him fordin' waters when nae ither thing could leeve i' them.He can weyse and wark his road sae cunnin'ly on the stanes that theroughest flood, if it's no juist fair ower his heid, canna upset him.Mony a sheep has he saved to me, and it's mony a guid drove wad neverhae won to Gledsmuir market but for Yeddie."
I listened with a boy's interest in any romantic narration. Somehow,the strange figure wrestling in the brown stream took fast hold on mymind, and I asked the shepherd for further tales.
"There's little mair to tell," he said, "for a gangrel life is nane o'the liveliest. But d'ye ken the langnebbit hill that cocks its tapabune the Clachlands heid? Weel, he's got a wee bit o' grund on the tapfrae the Yerl, and there he's howkit a grave for himsel'. He's swornme and twae-three ithers to bury him there, wherever he may dee. It'sa queer fancy in the auld dotterel."
So the shepherd talked, and as at evening we stood by his door we saw afigure moving into the gathering shadows. I knew it at once, and didnot need my friend's "There gangs 'Streams o' Water'" to recognise it.Something wild and pathetic in the old man's face haunted me like adream, and as the dusk swallowed him up, he seemed like some old Druidrecalled of the gods to his ancient habitation of the moors.