by John Buchan
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 illtrained; 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 straight away 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 hill-side is not too healthy for me at present. I mean to go down it by crawling in the open and ke
eping 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 unosten- tatiously taken up positions in a circle around the two ex- antagonists. Lamancha had been so engaged in Stoke’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.
‘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.’
Then the faithful Stokes uplifted his voice. ‘I done as I was told, sir, and kep’ movin’ all right, but I ain’t seen nothing, and then I ’ad a nawsty fall among them blasted rocks and ’urt my leg. This gentleman comes along and finds me and ’as a try at patchin’ me up. But for ’im, sir, I’d be lyin’ jammed between two stones till the crows ’ad a pick at me.’
‘You’re a good chap, Stokes,’ said Lamancha, ‘but you’re a liar. This man,’ he addressed Johnson, ‘was carrying out your orders, and challenged me. I wanted to pass, and he wouldn’t let me, so we had a rough-and-tumble, and through no fault of his he took a toss into a hole, and, as you see, broke his leg. I’ve set it and bound it up, but the sooner we get the job properly done the better. Hang it, it’s the poor devil’s livelihood. So we’d better push along.’
His tone irritated Johnson. This scoundrelly poacher, caught red-handed with a rifle, presumed to give orders to his own men. He turned fiercely on Stokes.
‘You know this fellow? What’s his name?’
‘I can’t say as I rightly knows ’im,’ was the answer. ‘But ’im and me was in the war, and he once gave me a drink outside Jerusalem.’
‘Are you John Macnab?’ Johnson demanded.
‘I’m anything you please,’ said Lamancha, ‘if you’ll only hurry and get this man to bed.’
‘Damn your impudence! What business is that of yours? You’ve been caught poaching and we’ll march you down to Haripol and get the truth out of you. If you won’t tell me who you are, I’ll find means to make you … Macnicol, you and Macqueen get on each side of him, and you three fellows follow behind. If he tries to bolt, club him … You can leave this man here. He’ll take no harm, and we can send back for him later.’
‘I’m sorry to interfere,’ said Lamancha quietly, ‘but Stokes is going down now. You needn’t worry about me. I’ll come with you, for I’ve got to see him comfortably settled.’
‘You’ll come with us!’ Johnson shouted. ‘Many thanks for your kindness. You’ll damn well be made to come. Macnicol, take hold of him.’
‘Don’t,’ said Lamancha. ‘Please don’t. It will only mean trouble.’
Macnicol was acutely unhappy. He recognised something in Lamancha’s tone which was perhaps unfamiliar to his master – that accent which means authority, and which, if disregarded, leads to mischief. He had himself served in Lovat’s Scouts, and the voice of this tatterdemalion was unpleasantly like that of certain high-handed officers of his acquaintance. So he hesitated and shuffled his feet.
‘Look at the thing reasonably,’ Lamancha said. ‘You say I’m a poacher called John Something-or-other. I admit that you have found me walking with a rifle on your ground, and naturally you want an explanation. But all that can wait till we get this man down to a doctor. I won’t run away, for I want to satisfy myself that he’s going to be all right. Won’t that content you?’
Johnson, to his disgust, felt that he was being manoeuvred into a false position. He was by no means unkind, and this infernal Macnab was making him appear a brute. Public opinion was clearly against him; Macnicol was obviously unwilling to act, Macqueen he knew detested him, and the three navvies might be supposed to take the side of their colleague. Johnson set a high value on public opinion, and scrupled to outrage it. So he curbed his wrath, and gave orders that Stokes should be taken up. Two men formed a cradle with their arms, and the cortege proceeded down the hill-side.
Lamancha took care to give his captors no uneasiness. He walked beside Macqueen, with whom he exchanged a few comments on the weather, and he thought his own by no means pleasant thoughts. This confounded encounter with Stokes had wrecked everything, and yet he could not be altogether sorry that it had happened. He had a chance now of doing something for an honest fellow – Stokes’s gallant lie to Johnson had convinced Lamancha of his superlative honesty. But it looked as if he were in for an ugly time with this young bounder, and he was beginning to dislike Johnson extremely. There were one or two points in his favour. The stag seemed to have departed with Wattie into the ewigkeit and happily no eye at the Beallach had seen the signs of the gralloch. All that Johnson could do was to accuse him of poaching, teste the rifle; he could not prove the deed. Lamancha was rather vague about the law, but he was doubtful whether mere trespass was a grave offence. Then the Claybodys would not want to make too much fuss about it, with the journalists booming the doings of John Macnab … But wouldn’t they? They were the kind of people that liked advertisement, and after all they had scored. What a tale for the cheap papers there would be in the capture of John Macnab! And if it got out who he was? … It was very clear that that at all costs must be prevented … Had Johnson Claybody any decent feelings to which he could appeal? A sportsman? Well, he didn’t seem to be of much account in that line, for he had wanted to leave the poor devil on the hill.
It took some time for the party to reach the Doran, which they forded at a point
considerably below Archie’s former lair. Lamancha gave thanks for one mercy, that Archie and Wattie seemed to have got clean away. There was a car on the road which caused him a moment’s uneasiness, till he saw that it was not the Ford but a large car with an all-weather body coming from Haripol. The driver seemed to have his instructions, for he turned round – no light task in that narrow road with its boggy fringes – and awaited their arrival.
Johnson gave rapid orders. ‘You march the fellow down the road, and bring the navvy – better take him to your cottage, Macqueen. I’ll go home in the car and prepare a reception for Macnab.’
It may be assumed that Johnson spoke in haste, for he had somehow to work off his irritation, and desired to assert his authority.
‘Hadn’t Stokes better go in the car?’ Lamancha suggested in a voice which he strove to make urbane. ‘That journey down the hill can’t have done his leg any good.’
Johnson replied by telling him to mind his own business, and then was foolish enough to add that he was hanged if he would have any lousy navvy in his car. He was preparing to enter, when something in Lamancha’s voice stopped him.
‘You can’t,’ said the latter. ‘In common decency you can’t.’
‘Who’ll prevent me? Now, look here, I’m fed up with your insolence. You’ll be well advised to hold your tongue till we make up our minds how to deal with you. You’re in a devilish nasty position, Mr John Macnab, if you had the wits to see it. Macnicol, and you fellows, I’ll fire the lot of you if he escapes on the road. You’ve my authority to hit him on the head if he gets nasty.’
Johnson’s foot was on the step, when a hand on his shoulder swung him round.
‘No, you don’t.’ Lamancha’s voice had lost all trace of civility, for he was very angry. ‘Stokes goes in the car and one of the gillies with him. Here you, lift the man in.’
Johnson had grown rather white, for he saw that the situation was working up to the ugliest kind of climax. He felt dimly that he was again defying public opinion, but his fury made him bold. He cursed Lamancha with vigour and freedom, but there was a slight catch in his voice, and a hint of anticlimax in his threats, for the truth was that he was a little afraid. Still it was a flat defiance, though it concluded with a sneering demand as to what and who would prevent him doing as he pleased, which sounded a little weak.