Books: Huntingtower

J >> John Buchan >> Huntingtower

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"What happened?' Dickson asked excitedly.

"They were four muckle men against six laddies, and they thought
they had an easy job! Little they kenned the Gorbals Die-Hards!
I had been expectin' something of the kind, and had made my plans.
They first tried to pu' down our tents and burn them. I let them get
within five yards, reservin' my fire. The first volley--stones from
our hands and our catties--halted them, and before they could recover
three of us had got hold o' burnin' sticks frae the fire and were
lammin' into them. We kinnled their claes, and they fell back
swearin' and stampin' to get the fire out. Then I gave the word and we
were on them wi' our pales, usin' the points accordin' to instructions.
My orders was to keep a good distance, for if they had grippit one o' us
he'd ha' been done for. They were roarin' mad by now, and twae had out
their knives, but they couldn't do muckle, for it was gettin' dark, and
they didn't ken the ground like us, and were aye trippin' and tumblin'.
But they pressed us hard, and one o' them landed me an awful clype
on the jaw. They were still aiming at our tents, and I saw that
if they got near the fire again it would be the end o' us.
So I blew my whistle for Thomas Yownie, who was in command o'
the other half of us, with instructions to fall upon their rear.
That brought Thomas up, and the tinklers had to face round about and
fight a battle on two fronts. We charged them and they broke, and the
last seen o' them they were coolin' their burns in the Garple."

"Well done, man. Had you many casualties?"

"We're a' a wee thing battered, but nothing to hurt. I'm the worst,
for one o' them had a grip o' me for about three seconds, and Gosh!
he was fierce."

"They're beaten off for the night, anyway?"

"Ay, for the night. But they'll come back, never fear. That's why
I said that things had come to a cripus."

"What's the news from the House?"

"A quiet day, and no word o' Lean or Dobson."

Dickson nodded. "They were hunting me."

"Mr. Heritage has gone to bide in the Hoose. They were watchin' the
Garple Dean, so I took him round by the Laver foot and up the rocks.
He's a souple yin, yon. We fund a road up the rocks and got
in by the verandy. Did ye ken that the lassie had a pistol?
Well, she has, and it seems that Mr. Heritage is a good shot wi'
a pistol, so there's some hope thereaways....Are the jools safe?"

"Safe in the bank. But the jools were not the main thing."

Dougal nodded. "So I was thinkin'. The lassie wasn't muckle the
easier for gettin' rid o' them. I didn't just quite understand what
she said to Mr. Heritage, for they were aye wanderin' into foreign
langwidges, but it seems she's terrible feared o' somebody that may
turn up any moment. What's the reason I can't say. She's maybe got
a secret, or maybe it's just that she's ower bonny."

"That's the trouble," said Dickson, and proceeded to recount his
interview with the factor, to which Dougal gave close attention.
"Now the way I read the thing is this. There's a plot to kidnap that
lady for some infernal purpose, and it depends on the arrival of some
person of persons, and it's due to happen in the next day or two.
If we try to work it through the police alone, they'll beat us,
for Loudon will manage to hang the business up until it's too late.
So we must take on the job ourselves. We must stand a siege,
Mr. Heritage and me and you laddies, and for that purpose we'd
better all keep together. It won't be extra easy to carry her off
from all of us, and if they do manage it we'll stick to their
heels....Man, Dougal, isn't it a queer thing that whiles law-abiding
folk have to make their own laws?....So my plan is that the lot of us
get into the House and form a garrison. If you don't, the tinklers
will come back and you'll no' beat them in the daylight."

"I doubt no'," said Dougal. "But what about our meat?"

"We must lay in provisions. We'll get what we can from Mrs. Morran,
and I've left a big box of fancy things at Dalquharter station.
Can you laddies manage to get it down here?"

Dougal reflected. "Ay, we can hire Mrs. Sempill's powny, the same
that fetched our kit."

"Well, that's your job to-morrow. See, I'll write you a line to
the station-master. And will you undertake to get it some way
into the House?"

"There's just the one road open--by the rocks. It'll have to be done.
It CAN be done."

"And I've another job. I'm writing this telegram to a friend in Glasgow
who will put a spoke in Mr. Loudon's wheel. I want one of you to go to
Kirkmichael to send it from the telegraph office there."

Dougal placed the wire to Mr. Caw in his bosom. "What about yourself?
We want somebody outside to keep his eyes open. It's bad strawtegy to
cut off your communications."

Dickson thought for a moment. "I believe you're right. I believe
the best plan for me is to go back to Mrs. Morran's as soon as the
old body's like to be awake. You can always get at me there,
for it's easy to slip into her back kitchen without anybody in
the village seeing you....Yes, I'll do that, and you'll come and
report developments to me. And now I'm for a bite and a pipe.
It's hungry work travelling the country in the small hours."

"I'm going to introjuice ye to the rest o' us," said Dougal.
"Here, men!" he called, and four figures rose from the side
of the fire. As Dickson munched a sandwich he passed in review
the whole company of the Gorbals Die-Hards, for the pickets were also
brought in, two others taking their places. There was Thomas Yownie,
the chief of Staff, with a wrist wound up in the handkerchief which
he had borrowed from his neck. There was a burly lad who wore
trousers much too large for him, and who was known as Peer Pairson,
a contraction presumably for Peter Paterson. After him came a lean
tall boy who answered to the name of Napoleon. There was a midget of
a child, desperately sooty in the face either from battle or from
fire-tending, who was presented as Wee Jaikie. Last came the picket
who had held his pole at Dickson's chest, a sandy-haired warrior with
a snub nose and the mouth and jaw of a pug-dog. He was Old Bill, or,
in Dougal's parlance," Auld Bull."

The Chieftain viewed his scarred following with a grim content.
"That's a tough lot for ye, Mr. McCunn. Used a' their days wi'
sleepin' in coal-rees and dunnies and dodgin' the polis. Ye'll no
beat the Gorbals Die-Hards."

"You're right, Dougal," said Dickson. "There's just the six of you.
If there were a dozen, I think this country would be needing some
new kind of a government."

CHAPTER VIII

HOW A MIDDLE-AGED CRUSADER ACCEPTED A CHALLENGE

The first cocks had just begun to crow and clocks had not yet
struck five when Dickson presented himself at Mrs. Morran's back door.
That active woman had already been half an hour out of bed, and was
drinking her morning cup of tea in the kitchen. She received him
with cordiality, nay, with relief.

"Eh, sir, but I'm glad to see ye back. Guid kens what's gaun on at
the Hoose thae days. Mr. Heritage left here yestreen, creepin' round
by dyke-sides and berry-busses like a wheasel. It's a mercy to get
a responsible man in the place. I aye had a notion ye wad come back,
for, thinks I, nevoy Dickson is no the yin to desert folk in trouble..
..Whaur's my wee kist?....Lost, ye say. That's a peety, for it's
been my cheesebox thae thirty year."

Dickson ascended to the loft, having announced his need of at least three
hours' sleep. As he rolled into bed his mind was curiously at ease.
He felt equipped for any call that might be made on him. That Mrs. Morran
should welcome him back as a resource in need gave him a new assurance
of manhood.

He woke between nine and ten to the sound of rain lashing against
the garret window. As he picked his way out of the mazes of sleep
and recovered the skein of his immediate past, he found to his disgust
that he had lost his composure. All the flock of fears, that had left
him when on the top of the Glasgow tram-car he had made the great decision,
had flown back again and settled like black crows on his spirit.
He was running a horrible risk and all for a whim. What business had
he to be mixing himself up in things he did not understand? It might
be a huge mistake, and then he would be a laughing stock; for a moment
he repented his telegram to Mr. Caw. Then he recanted that suspicion;
there could be no mistake, except the fatal one that he had taken on
a job too big for him. He sat on the edge of the bed and shivered
with his eyes on the grey drift of rain. He would have felt more
stout-hearted had the sun been shining.

He shuffled to the window and looked out. There in the village street
was Dobson, and Dobson saw him. That was a bad blunder, for his reason
told him that he should have kept his presence in Dalquharter hid
as long as possible. There was a knock at the cottage door, and
presently Mrs. Morran appeared.

"It's the man frae the inn," she announced. "He's wantin' a
word wi' ye. Speakin' verra ceevil, too."

"Tell him to come up," said Dickson. He might as well get
the interview over. Dobson had seen Loudon and must know
of their conversation. The sight of himself back again when
he had pretended to be off to Glasgow would remove him effectually
from the class of the unsuspected. He wondered just what line
Dobson would take.

The innkeeper obtruded his bulk through the low door. His face was
wrinkled into a smile, which nevertheless left the small eyes ungenial.
His voice had a loud vulgar cordiality. Suddenly Dickson was conscious
of a resemblance, a resemblance to somebody whom he had recently seen.
It was Loudon. There was the same thrusting of the chin forward,
the same odd cheek-bones, the same unctuous heartiness of speech.
The innkeeper, well washed and polished and dressed, would be no bad
copy of the factor. They must be near kin, perhaps brothers.

"Good morning to you, Mr. McCunn. Man, it's pitifu' weather,
and just when the farmers are wanting a dry seed-bed. What brings
ye back here? Ye travel the country like a drover."

"Oh, I'm a free man now and I took a fancy to this place.
An idle body has nothing to do but please himself."

"I hear ye're taking a lease of Huntingtower?"

"Now who told you that?"

"Just the clash of the place. Is it true?"

Dickson looked sly and a little annoyed.

"I had maybe had half a thought of it, but I'll thank you not to
repeat the story. It's a big house for a plain man like me, and
I haven't properly inspected it."

"Oh, I'll keep mum, never fear. But if ye've that sort of notion,
I can understand you not being able to keep away from the place."

"That's maybe the fact," Dickson admitted.

"Well! It's just on that point I want a word with you." The innkeeper
seated himself unbidden on the chair which held Dickson's modest raiment.
He leaned forward and with a coarse forefinger tapped Dickson's
pyjama-clad knees. "I can't have ye wandering about the place.
I'm very sorry, but I've got my orders from Mr. Loudon. So if you
think that by bidin' here you can see more of the House and the
policies, ye're wrong, Mr. McCunn. It can't be allowed, for we're no'
ready for ye yet. D'ye understand? That's Mr. Loudon's orders..
..Now, would it not be a far better plan if ye went back to Glasgow and
came back in a week's time? I'm thinking of your own comfort, Mr. McCunn."

Dickson was cogitating hard. This man was clearly instructed to get
rid of him at all costs for the next few days. The neighbourhood had
to be cleared for some black business. The tinklers had been deputed
to drive out the Gorbals Die-Hards, and as for Heritage they seemed
to have lost track of him. He, Dickson, was now the chief object
of their care. But what could Dobson do if he refused? He dared
not show his true hand. Yet he might, if sufficiently irritated.
It became Dickson's immediate object to get the innkeeper to reveal
himself by rousing his temper. He did not stop to consider the
policy of this course; he imperatively wanted things cleared up and
the issue made plain.

"I'm sure I'm much obliged to you for thinking so much about
my comfort," he said in a voice into which he hoped he had
insinuated a sneer. "But I'm bound to say you're awful suspicious
folk about here. You needn't be feared for your old policies.
There's plenty of nice walks about the roads, and I want to
explore the sea-coast."

The last words seemed to annoy the innkeeper. "That's no' allowed
either," he said. "The shore's as private as the policies..
..Well, I wish ye joy tramping the roads in the glaur."

"It's a queer thing," said Dickson meditatively, "that you should
keep a hotel and yet be set on discouraging people from visiting
this neighbourhood. I tell you what, I believe that hotel of
yours is all sham. You've some other business, you and these
lodgekeepers, and in my opinion it's not a very creditable one."

"What d'ye mean?" asked Dobson sharply.

"Just what I say. You must expect a body to be suspicious,
if you treat him as you're treating me." Loudon must have told
this man the story with which he had been fobbed off about the
half-witted Kennedy relative. Would Dobson refer to that?

The innkeeper had an ugly look on his face, but he controlled his
temper with an effort.

"There's no cause for suspicion," he said. "As far as I'm concerned
it's all honest and above-board."

"It doesn't look like it. It looks as if you were hiding something up
in the House which you don't want me to see."

Dobson jumped from his chair. his face pale with anger. A man in pyjamas
on a raw morning does not feel at this bravest, and Dickson quailed
under the expectation of assault. But even in his fright he realized
that Loudon could not have told Dobson the tale of the half-witted lady.
The last remark had cut clean through all camouflage and reached the quick.

"What the hell d'ye mean?" he cried. "Ye're a spy, are ye?
Ye fat little fool, for two cents I'd wring your neck."

Now it is an odd trait of certain mild people that a suspicion of
threat, a hint of bullying, will rouse some unsuspected obstinacy
deep down in their souls. The insolence of the man's speech woke a
quiet but efficient little devil in Dickson.

"That's a bonny tone to adopt in addressing a gentleman. If you've
nothing to hide what way are you so touchy? I can't be a spy unless
there's something to spy on."

The innkeeper pulled himself together. He was apparently acting on
instructions, and had not yet come to the end of them. He made an
attempt at a smile.

"I'm sure I beg your pardon if I spoke too hot. But it nettled me to
hear ye say that....I'll be quite frank with ye, Mr. McCunn, and,
believe me, I'm speaking in your best interests. I give ye my word
there's nothing wrong up at the House. I'm on the side of the law,
and when I tell ye the whole story ye'll admit it. But I can't tell
it ye yet....This is a wild, lonely bit, and very few folk bide in it.
And these are wild times, when a lot of queer things happen that never
get into the papers. I tell ye it's for your own good to leave
Dalquharter for the present. More I can't say, but I ask ye to look
at it as a sensible man. Ye're one that's accustomed to a quiet life
and no' meant for rough work. Ye'll do no good if you stay, and, maybe,
ye'll land yourself in bad trouble."

"Mercy on us!" Dickson exclaimed. "What is it you're expecting?
Sinn Fein?"

The innkeeper nodded. "Something like that."

"Did you ever hear the like? I never did think much of the Irish."

"Then ye'll take my advice and go home? Tell ye what, I'll drive
ye to the station."

Dickson got up from the bed, found his new safety-razor and began
to strop it. "No, I think I'll bide. If you're right there'll be
more to see than glaury roads."

"I'm warning ye, fair and honest. Ye...can't...be...allowed.
..to...stay...here!"

"Well I never!" said Dickson. "Is there any law in Scotland,
think you, that forbids a man to stop a day or two with his auntie?"

"Ye'll stay?"

"Ay, I'll stay."

"By God, we'll see about that."

For a moment Dickson thought that he would be attacked, and he
measured the distance that separated him from the peg whence hung
his waterproof with the pistol in its pocket. But the man restrained
himself and moved to the door. There he stood and cursed him with a
violence and a venom which Dickson had not believed possible.
The full hand was on the table now.

"Ye wee pot-bellied, pig-heided Glasgow grocer" (I paraphrase), "would
you set up to defy me? I tell ye, I'll make ye rue the day ye were born."
His parting words were a brilliant sketch of the maltreatment in store
for the body of the defiant one.

"Impident dog," said Dickson without heat. He noted with pleasure
that the innkeeper hit his head violently against the low lintel,
and, missing a step, fell down the loft stairs into the kitchen,
where Mrs. Morran's tongue could be heard speeding him trenchantly
from the premises.

Left to himself, Dickson dressed leisurely, and by and by went
down to the kitchen and watched his hostess making broth.
The fracas with Dobson had done him all the good in the world,
for it had cleared the problem of dubieties and had put an edge
on his temper. But he realized that it made his continued stay in
the cottage undesirable. He was now the focus of all suspicion,
and the innkeeper would be as good as his word and try to drive him
out of the place by force. Kidnapping, most likely, and that would
be highly unpleasant, besides putting an end to his usefulness.
Clearly he must join the others. The soul of Dickson hungered at
the moment for human companionship. He felt that his courage would
be sufficient for any team-work, but might waver again if he were
left to play a lone hand.

He lunched nobly off three plates of Mrs. Morran's kail--an early lunch,
for that lady, having breakfasted at five, partook of the midday
meal about eleven. Then he explored her library, and settled
himself by the fire with a volume of Covenanting tales, entitled
GLEANINGS AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. It was a most practical work for one
in his position, for it told how various eminent saints of that era
escaped the attention of Claverhouse's dragoons. Dickson stored up
in his memory several of the incidents in case they should come
in handy. He wondered if any of his forbears had been Covenanters;
it comforted him to think that some old progenitor might have
hunkered behind turf walls and been chased for his life in the heather.
"Just like me," he reflected. "But the dragoons weren't foreigners,
and there was a kind of decency about Claverhouse too."

About four o'clock Dougal presented himself in the back kitchen.
He was an even wilder figure than usual, for his bare legs were mud
to the knees, his kilt and shirt clung sopping to his body, and,
having lost his hat, his wet hair was plastered over his eyes.
Mrs. Morran said, not unkindly, that he looked "like a wull-cat
glowerin' through a whin buss."

"How are you, Dougal?" Dickson asked genially. "Is the peace of
nature smoothing out the creases in your poor little soul?"

"What's that ye say?"

"Oh, just what I heard a man say in Glasgow. How have you got on?"

"No' so bad. Your telegram was sent this mornin'. Auld Bill
took it in to Kirkmichael. That's the first thing. Second,
Thomas Yownie has took a party to get down the box from the station.
He got Mrs. Sempills' powny, and he took the box ayont the Laver by
the ford at the herd's hoose and got it on to the shore maybe a
mile ayont Laverfoot. He managed to get the machine up as far
as the water, but he could get no farther, for ye'll no' get a
machine over the wee waterfa' just before the Laver ends in the sea.
So he sent one o' the men back with it to Mrs. Sempill, and, since
the box was ower heavy to carry, he opened it and took the stuff
across in bits. It's a' safe in the hole at the foot o' the
Huntingtower rocks, and he reports that the rain has done it no harm.
Thomas has made a good job of it. Ye'll no' fickle Thomas Yownie."

"And what about your camp on the moor?"

"It was broke up afore daylight. Some of our things we've got with us,
but most is hid near at hand. The tents are in the auld wife's hen-hoose."
and he jerked his disreputable head in the direction of the back door.

"Have the tinklers been back?"

"Aye. They turned up about ten o'clock, no doubt intendin' murder.
I left Wee Jaikie to watch developments. They fund him sittin' on a
stone, greetin' sore. When he saw them, he up and started to run,
and they cried on him to stop, but he wouldn't listen. Then they
cried out where were the rest, and he telled them they were feared
for their lives and had run away. After that they offered to catch
him, but ye'll no' catch Jaikie in a hurry. When he had run round
about them till they were wappit, he out wi' his catty and got one
o' them on the lug. Syne he made for the Laverfoot and reported."

"Man, Dougal, you've managed fine. Now I've something to tell you,"
and Dickson recounted his interview with the innkeeper. "I don't think
it's safe for me to bide here, and if I did, I wouldn't be any use,
hiding in cellars and such like, and not daring to stir a foot.
I'm coming with you to the House. Now tell me how to get there."

Dougal agreed to this view. "There's been nothing doing at the
Hoose the day, but they're keepin' a close watch on the policies.
The cripus may come any moment. There's no doubt, Mr. McCunn,
that ye're in danger, for they'll serve you as the tinklers tried
to serve us. Listen to me. Ye'll walk up the station road,
and take the second turn on your left, a wee grass road that'll
bring ye to the ford at the herd's hoose. Cross the Laver--there's
a plank bridge--and take straight across the moor in the direction of
the peakit hill they call Grey Carrick. Ye'll come to a big burn,
which ye must follow till ye get to the shore. Then turn south,
keepin' the water's edge till ye reach the Laver, where you'll find
one o' us to show ye the rest of the road....I must be off now,
and I advise ye not to be slow of startin', for wi' this rain
the water's risin' quick. It's a mercy it's such coarse weather,
for it spoils the veesibility."

"Auntie Phemie," said Dickson a few minutes later, "will you oblige
me by coming for a short walk?"

"The man's daft," was the answer.

"I'm not. I'll explain if you'll listen....You see," he concluded,
"the dangerous bit for me is just the mile out of the village.
They'll no' be so likely to try violence if there's somebody with me
that could be a witness. Besides, they'll maybe suspect less if they
just see a decent body out for a breath of air with his auntie."

Mrs. Morran said nothing, but retired, and returned presently
equipped for the road. She had indued her feet with goloshes and
pinned up her skirts till they looked like some demented Paris mode.
An ancient bonnet was tied under her chin with strings, and her
equipment was completed by an exceedingly smart tortoise-shell-
handled umbrella, which, she explained, had been a Christmas
present from her son.

"I'll convoy ye as far as the Laverfoot herd's," she announced.
"The wife's a freend o' mine and will set me a bit on the road back.
Ye needna fash for me. I'm used to a' weathers."

The rain had declined to a fine drizzle, but a tearing wind from
the south-west scoured the land. Beyond the shelter of the trees
the moor was a battle-ground of gusts which swept the puddles into
spindrift and gave to the stagnant bog-pools the appearance of
running water. The wind was behind the travellers, and Mrs. Morran,
like a full-rigged ship, was hustled before it, so that Dickson,
who had linked arms with her, was sometimes compelled to trot.

"However will you get home, mistress?" he murmured anxiously.

"Fine. The wind will fa' at the darkenin'. This'll be a sair time
for ships at sea."

Not a soul was about, so they breasted the ascent of the station road
and turned down the grassy bypath to the Laverfoot herd's.
The herd's wife saw them from afar and was at the door to receive them.

"Megsty! Phemie Morran!" she shrilled. "Wha wad ettle to see
ye on a day like this? John's awa' at Dumfries, buyin' tups.
Come in, the baith o' ye. The kettle's on the boil."

"This is my nevoy Dickson," said Mrs. Morran. "He's gaun to stretch his
legs ayont the burn, and come back by the Ayr road. But I'll be blithe
to tak' my tea wi' ye, Elspeth....Now, Dickson, I'll expect ye hame on
the chap o' seeven."

He crossed the rising stream on a swaying plank and struck into
the moorland, as Dougal had ordered, keeping the bald top of
Grey Carrick before him. In that wild place with the tempest battling
overhead he had no fear of human enemies. Steadily he covered the
ground, till he reached the west-flowing burn, that was to lead him
to the shore. He found it an entertaining companion, swirling into
black pools, foaming over little falls, and lying in dark canal-like
stretches in the flats. Presently it began to descend steeply
in a narrow green gully, where the going was bad, and Dickson,
weighted with pack and waterproof, had much ado to keep his feet
on the sodden slopes. Then, as he rounded a crook of hill, the ground
fell away from his feet, the burn swept in a water-slide to the
boulders of the shore, and the storm-tossed sea lay before him.

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