by John Buchan
CHAPTER XVIII
SMITWOOD
That I am alive to this day and fit to write this tale, I owe to WilliamBaillie. He saw me fall and the press close over me, and, though hardbeset himself, he made one effort for my salvation. "Mathy," he cried,"and Tam and Andra, look after your man and get him up," and then oncemore he was at death-grips. They obeyed his bidding as well as theymight, and made a little ring in the centre around me, defending me withtheir weapons. Then they entwined us and lifted me, senseless as I was,to the light and air. As for Kennedy, he was heavy and florid, and hislife had gone from him at the first overthrow.
I do not know well how I was got from the fray. I think I would havebeen killed, had not the Ruthvens, whose best men were wounded, givenway a little after. Their trick of surrounding the enemy, by spreadingwide their wings, was not wise and met with sorry success. For it lefttheir middle so weak, that when Kennedy and the valiant Earl had beenmastered, there remained no resistance. So when my friends made hasteto push with me to the back they found their path none so hard. Andafter all that there was nothing but confusion and rout, the one sidefleeing with their wounded, the other making no effort to pursue, butremaining to rest and heal their hurts.
As I have said, I was unconscious for some time, and when I revived Iwas given a sleeping draught of the gipsies' own making. It put me intoa profound slumber, so that I slept for the rest of the day and nightand well on to the next morning. When I awoke I was in a rough cartdrawn by two little horses, in the centre of the troop who were hurryingwestward. I felt my body with care and found that I was whole and well.A noise still hummed in my head and my eyes were not very clear, asindeed was natural after the fray of the day before. But I had no sorehurt, only little flesh scratches, which twinged at the time, but wouldsoon be healed.
But if this was my case it was not that of the rest of the band. Thebattle had been like all such gipsy fights--very terrible and bloody,but with no great roll of dead. Indeed, on our side we had not lost aman, and of the enemy Kennedy alone had died, who, being a big man and afull-blooded, had been suffocated in his fall by the throng above him.It was just by little that I had escaped the same fate, for we two atthe time had been in death-grips, and had I not been thin and hardy offrame, I should have perished there and then. But the wounds were soterrible on both sides that it scarce seemed possible that many couldever recover. Yet I heard, in after days, that not one died as a resultof that day's encounter. Even the Earl of Hell and his daughter Jeanrecovered of their wounds and wandered through the country for manyyears. But the sight of the folk around me on the march was veryterrible. One man limped along with a great gash in his thigh in whichI could have placed my open hand. Another had three fingers shorn off,and carried his maimed and bandaged hand piteously. Still a third layin the cart with a breast wound which gaped at every breath, and seemedcertain ere long to bring death. Yet of such strength and hardihood wasthis extraordinary people that they made light of such wounds, and sworethey would be healed in three weeks' time. Perhaps this tenacity oflife is due in some part to their excellent doctoring, for it is certainthat these folk have great skill in medicaments, and withherb-concoctions, and I know not what else, will often perform wondrouscures. I have my own case as an instance--where first I was restoredfrom a high fever by their skill, and, second, from a fit of suffocationfar more deadly.
The storms of the day before had passed and a light frost set in whichmade the air clear and sharp and the countryside plain even to thedistances. We were passing under the great mass of Tintock--a high,hump-backed hill which rises sheer from the level land and stands like amighty sentinel o'er the upper Clyde valley. We travelled slow, for thewounded were not fit to bear much speed, and many of the folk walked tosuffer the horses to be yoked to the carts. After a little I espied thecaptain walking at the side, with his shoulder and cheeks bandaged, butas erect and haughty as ever. Seeing that I was awake, he came overbeside me and asked very kindly after my health. His tenderness towardme was as great as if I had been his son or nearest blood-kin. When Itold him that I was well and would get down and walk beside him, he saidthat that would be a most unbecoming thing and would never do, but thathe would have a horse brought me from the back. So a horse was brought,an excellent black, with white on its fetlocks, and I mounted; anddespite some little stiffness, found it much to my liking.
He told of the end of the battle and all the details of its course. Hewas in the highest spirits, for though his folk were sore wounded, theyhad yet beaten their foes and sent them off in a worse plight thanthemselves. Above all he was full of a childish vanity in his ownprowess. "Saw you that muckle bullion, Kennedy, Master Burnet? I giedhim some gey licks, but I never could win near eneuch to him for hismuckle airm. You grippit him weel and he'll no bother us mair. His ainfolk 'll keep quiet eneuch aboot the affair, I'll warrant, so we maylook to hear naething mair aboot it. I'm thinking tae, that the Yerl'll no seek to come back my gate again. I tried to mak him fecht like agentleman, but faith, he wadna dae't. He just keepit cuttin' at myshanks till I was fair wild, and telled some o' our ain folk to tak thelegs frae the body wi' a scythe-stick. I haena seen a fecht like itsince that at the Romanno Brig fifteen years syne, atween the Faas andthe Shawes, when they were gaun frae Haddington to Harestane. Our folkwad hae been in't if they hadna come't up ower late and juist seen theend o't."
"And will you have no farther trouble about the matter?" I asked. "Ifthe justice gets word of it will you not suffer?"
"Na, na," he said, with conviction, "nae fear. Thae things dinna come tothe lugs o' the law. We didna dae ony hairm except to oorsels, andthere's nane o' us killed save Kennedy whae dee'd a naitural death, sothere can be nae word aboot that. Forbye, how's the law to grip us?"And he turned on me a face full of roguish mirth which looked oddlybetween the bandages. "If they heard we were at Biggar Moss yae day andcam after us, afore the morn we wad be in the Douglas Muirs or theEttrick Hills. We're kittle cattle to fash wi'. We gang slow forordinar, but when aucht presses we can flee like a flock o' stirlins."
"Then where are you going?" I asked.
"Where, but to Lancrick," he said. "There's a fair comes on thereMonday three days, and the muir is grand beddin'. I didna ask your willon the maitter, for I kenned a' places the noo were muckle the same toye, provided they were safe and no ower far away frae the wast country."
"That's true enough," I said, thinking sadly of Marjory and my miserableplight. I had not told Baillie anything of my story, for I did not careto commit it to such ears. But I was glad that we travelled in thisairt, for I had still in my heart a wild hope that by some fortunatechance I should be in time to save my love.
About midday we came to Lanark Moor, where the baggage and shelties, aswell as most of the women and children, were left behind to find anencampment. As for us, we pushed on to the town to see what was doingand hear some news of the countryside. I had no fear of detection, forin my new guise I passed for the veriest gipsy in the land. I was stillclothed in my suit of crimson, but the fight had made it torn in manyplaces, and all smirched with mire and bog-water. Also, my face was notonly stained with the captain's dye, but the storms and dust of theencounter had deepened its colour to the likeness of an Ethiop. I hadnot a rag left of gentility, save maybe the sword which still swung atmy side. In this fashion I rode by Baillie's elbow in a mood neitherglad nor sad, but sunk in a sort of dogged carelessness. The entranceto the town was down a steep path from the moor, for the place is builtabove the gorge of Clyde, yet something lower than the surroundingmoorlands. Far on all sides I had a view of the wide landscape, from therugged high hills of Tweeddale and the upper Clyde to the lowlands inthe west which stretch to Glasgow and the sea.
But when we came to the town there was a great to-do, men running aboutbriskly and talking to one another, old women and young gossiping athouse and close doors, and the upper window
s filled with heads. Therewas a curious, anxious hum throughout the air, as if some great news hadcome or was coming ere long. I forgot for a moment my position andleaned from the saddle to ask the cause of a man who stood talking to awoman at the causeway side. He looked at me rudely. "What for d'yewant to ken, ye black-faced tinkler? D'ye think it'll matter muckle toyou what king there is when you're hangit?" But the woman was moregracious and deigned to give me some sort of answer. "There's word o'news," she said. "We kenna yet what it is, and some think ae thing andsome anither, but a' are agreed that it'll make a gey stramash i' theland. A man cam ridin' here an hour syne and has been closeted wi' theprovost ever since. Honest man, his heid 'll be fair turned if there'sonything wrung, for he's better at sellin' tatties than reddin' thedisorders o' the state." And then the man by her side bade her hold herpeace, and I rode on without hearing more.
By and by we came to the market-place where stands the ancient cross ofLanerick, whereat all proclamations are made for the Westlands.Straight down from it one looks on the steep braes of Kirkfieldbank andthe bridge which the Romans built over the river; and even there themurmur of the great falls in Clyde comes to a man's ear. The place wasthronged with people standing in excited groups, and the expression oneach face was one of expectancy. Folk had come in from the countryround as on some errand of enquiry, and the coats of a few of thesoldiery were to be discerned among the rest. But I had no fear ofthem, for they were of the lowlands regiment, and had no knowledge ofme. The sight of us, and of myself in especial, for Baillie had changedhis garb, caused some little stir in the crowd and many inquisitivelooks.
The captain came up to me. "There's dooms little to be dune here," hecried; "the place is in sic a fever, I canna think what's gaun tohappen. We may as weel gang back to the muirs and wait till thingsquiet doun."
"I know not either," said I, and yet all the time I knew I was lying,for I had some faint guess at the approach of great tidings, and myheart was beating wildly.
Suddenly the crowd parted at the farther end and a man on a wearied greyhorse rode up toward the cross. He held a bundle of papers in his hand,and his face was red with hurry and excitement. "News," he criedhoarsely, "great news, the greatest and the best that the land has heardfor many a day." And as the people surged round in a mighty press hewaved them back and dismounted from his horse. Then slowly andpainfully he ascended the steps of the cross and leaned for a secondagainst the shaft to regain his breath. Then he stood forward and criedout in a loud voice that all in the market-place might hear. "I haveridden post-haste from Edinbro' with the word, for it came only thismorn. James Stewart has fled from the throne, and William of Orange haslanded in the South and is on his way to London. The bloody house hasfallen and the troubling of Israel is at an end."
At that word there went through the people a sound which I shall neverforget as long as I live--the sigh of gratitude for a great deliverance.It was like a passing of a wind through a forest, and more terrible tohear than all the alarums of war. And then there followed a mightyshout, so loud and long that the roofs trembled, and men tossed bonnetsin air and cried aloud and wept and ran hither and thither like madmen.At last the black cloud of the persecution had lifted from their land,and they were free to go and tell their kinsmen in hiding that alldanger was gone for ever.
As for myself, what shall I say? My first feeling was one of utter joy.Once more I was free to go whither I liked, and call my lands my own.Now I could overmaster my cousin and set out to the saving of my lass.Indeed I, who am a king's man through and through, and who sorrowed inafter days for this very event, am ashamed to say that my only feelingat the moment was one of irrepressible gladness. No one, who has notfor many months been under the shadow of death, can tell the blessednessof the release. But even as I joyed, I thought of Marjory, and thethought recalled me to my duty.
"Have you a fast horse?" I said to the captain.
He looked at me in amazement, for the tidings were nothing to him, andin my face he must have read something of my tale.
"You mean--" he said.
"Yes, yes," said I; "it means that I am now safe, and free to saveanother. I must be off hot-foot. Will you lend me a horse?"
"Take mine," said he, "it's at your service, and take my guidwill wi'ye." And he dismounted and held out his hand.
I mounted and took his in one parting grip. "God bless you, WilliamBaillie, for an honest man and a gentleman," and I was off withoutanother word.
It must have been a strange thing for the people of Lanark to see me onthat day, as they ran hither and thither to tell the good tidings. For,in all my savage finery, I dashed up the narrow street, scattering folkto the right and left like ducks from a pond, and paying no heed to ahundred angry threats which rang out behind me. In a little I hadgained the moor, and set my face for Douglasdale and my lady. Smitwoodwas but ten miles away and the path to it easy. In a short hour I shouldbe there, and then--ah, then, it could not be otherwise, it must be,that Marjory should be there to greet me, and be the first to hear mybrave news.
I passed over the road I had come, and had no time to reflect on thedifference in my condition from two hours agone, when abject andmiserable I had plodded along it. Now all my head was in a whirl, andmy heart in a storm of throbbing. The horse's motion was too slow tokeep pace with my thoughts and my desires; and I found me posting onahead of myself, eager to be at my goal. In such wild fashion I rodeover the low haughlands of Clyde, and forded the river at a deep placewhere it flowed still and treacherous among reeds, never heeding, butswimming my horse across, though I had enough to do to land on the otherside. Then on through the benty moorlands of Douglas-side and past thegreat wood of the Douglas Castle. My whole nature was centred in onegreat desire of meeting, and yet even in my longing I had a deadlysuspicion that all might not be well--that I had come too late.
Then I saw the trees and the old house of Smitwood lying solemn amongits meadows. I quickened my horse to fresh exertion. Like a whirlwindhe went up the avenue, making the soft turf fly beneath his heels. Thenwith a start I drew him up at the door and cried loudly for admittance.
Master Veitch came out with a startled face and looked upon me withsurprise.
"Is Marjory within?" I cried, "Marjory! Quick, tell me!"
"Marjory," he replied, and fell back with a white face. "Do you seekMarjory? She left here two day's agone to go to you, when you sent forher. Your servant Nicol went after her."
"O my God," I cried, "I am too late;" and I leaned against my horse indespair.
BOOK IV--THE WESTLANDS