John Burnet of Barns: A Romance

CHAPTER IV

UP HILL AND DOWN DALE

I rushed up the street, leaving the gates swinging wide behind me, and down the lane to where Nicol waited. In brief, panting words I told him my tale. He heard it without a movement, save to turn his horse's head up the street. I swung myself into the saddle, and, with no more delay, we made for our lodgings.

"There is but one thing that we may do," said I. "The night is an ill one, but if it is ill for us 'tis ill for them." And at the words I groaned, for I thought of my poor Marjory in the storm and cold.

At Mistress Macmillan's I paid the lawing, and having eaten a hearty meal, we crammed some food into our saddle-bags and bade the hostess good-bye. Then we turned straight for the west port of the city.

It was as I had expected. The gates were just at the closing when the twain of us rode up to them and were suffered to pass. The man looked curiously at my strange dress, but made no remark, as is the fashion of these taciturn Westland folk, and together we rode through and into the bleak night. The snow had ceased to fall early in the day, but now it came on again in little intermittent driftings, while a keen wind whistled from the hills of the north. The land was more or less strange to me, and even my servant, who had a passing acquaintance with many countrysides, professed himself ignorant. It was the way to the wild highlands – the county of Campbells and Lennoxes – and far distant from kindly Christian folk. I could not think why my cousin had chosen this path, save for the reason of its difficulty and obscurity. I was still in doubt of his purpose, whether he was bound for his own house of Eaglesham or for the more distant Clyde coast. He had clearly gone by this gate from the city, for this much we had learned from the man at the port. Now, if he sought Eaglesham, he must needs cross the river, which would give us some time to gain on his track. But if he still held to the north, then there was naught for it but to follow him hot-foot and come up with him by God's grace and our horses' speed.

I have been abroad on many dark nights, but never have I seen one so black as this. The path to the west ran straight from our feet to the rugged hills which dip down to the river edge some ten miles off. But of it we could make nothing, nor was there anything to tell us of its presence save that our horses stumbled when we strayed from it to the moory land on either side. All about us were the wilds, for the town of Glasgow stood on the last bounds of settled country, near to the fierce mountains and black morasses of the Highlandmen. The wind crooned and blew in gusts over the white waste, driving little flakes of snow about us, and cutting us to the bone with its bitter cold. Somewhere in the unknown distances we heard strange sounds – the awesome rumble of water or the cry of forlorn birds. All was as bleak as death, and, in the thick darkness, what might otherwise have seemed simple and homelike, was filled with vague terrors. I had shaped no path – all that I sought was to hasten somewhere nearer those we followed, and on this mad quest we stumbled blindly forward.

When we had gone some half-dozen miles a light shone out from the wayside, and we descried a house. It was a little, low dwelling, with many sheds at the rear; clearly a smithy or a humble farm. My servant leaped down and knocked. The door was opened, a warm stream of light lay across the snowy road. I had a glimpse within, and there was a cheerful kitchen with a fire of logs crackling. A man sat by the hearth, shaping something or other with a knife, and around him two children were playing. The woman who came to us was buxom and comely, one who delighted in her children and her home. The whole place gave me a sharp feeling of envy and regret. Even these folk, poor peasants, had the joys of comfort and peace, while I, so long an outlaw and a wanderer, must still wander hopeless seeking the lost, cumbered about with a thousand dangers.

"Did any riders pass by the road to-day?" I asked.

"Ay, four passed on horses about midday or maybe a wee thing after it, twae stoot fellows, and a braw-clad gentleman and a bonny young leddy. They didna stop but gaed by at a great rate."

"What was the lady like?" I asked, breathlessly.

"Oh, a bit young thing, snod and genty-like. But I mind she looked gey dowie and I think she had been greetin'. But wherefore d'ye speir, sir? And what are ye daein' oot hereaways on siccan a nicht? Ye best come in and bide till mornin'. We've an orra bed i' the house for the maister, and plenty o' guid, saft straw i' the barn for the man."

"Did they go straight on?" I cried, "and whither does this way lead?"

"They went straight on," said she, "and the road is the road to the toun o' Dumbarton." And she would have told me more, but with a hasty word of thanks, I cut her short, and once more we were off into the night.

From this place our way and the incidents thereof are scarce clear in my memory. For one thing the many toils of the preceding time began at last to tell upon me, and I grew sore and wearied. Also a heavy drowsiness oppressed me, and even in that cold I could have slept on my horse's back. We were still on the path, and the rhythmical jog of the motion served to lull me, till, as befell every now and then, there came a rut or a tussock, and I was brought to my senses with a sharp shock. Nicol rode silently at my side, a great figure in the gloom, bent low, as was always his custom, over his horse's neck. In one way the state was more pleasing than the last, for the turmoil of cares in my heart was quieted for the moment by the bodily fatigue. I roused myself at times to think of my purpose and get me energy for my task, but the dull languor would not be exorcised, and I always fell back again into my sloth. Nevertheless we kept a fair pace, for we had given the rein to our animals, and they were fresh and well-fed.

Suddenly, ere I knew, the way began to change from a level road into a steep hill-path. Even in the blackness I could see a great hillside rising steeply to right and to left. I pulled up my horse, for here there would be need of careful guidance, and was going on as before when Nicol halted me with his voice.

"Laird, Laird," he cried, "I dinna ken muckle aboot the Dumbarton road, but there's yae thing I ken weel and that is that it keeps i' the laigh land near the waterside a' the way, and doesna straiggle ower brae-faces."

This roused me to myself. "Did we pass any cross-road?" I asked, "for God knows the night is dark enough for any man to wander. Are you sure of what you say?"

"As sure as I am that my fingers are cauld and my een fair dazed wi' sleep," said he.

"Then there is naught for it but to go back and trust to overtaking the path. But stay, are these not the hills of Kilpatrick, which stretch down from the Lennox to the Clyde and front the river at this very Dumbarton? I have surely heard of such. Our highway must lie to our left, since we clearly have turned to the right, seeing that if we had turned to the left we should have reached the water. If then we strike straight from here along the bottom of this slope, will we not reach the town? The chances are that we should never find our path, whereas this way will bring us there without fail, if we can stomach some rough riding."

"Weel, sir, I'm wi' ye wherever ye like to gang. And I'll no deny but that it's the maist reasonable road to tak, if ye're no feared o' breakin' your craig ower a stane or walkin' intil a peat-bog. But we maun e'en lippen to Providence and tak our chance like better men."

So wheeling sharply to our left, we left the path and rode as best we could along the rough bottom of the hills. It was a tract of rushy ground where many streams ran. Huge boulders, tumbled down from the steeps, strewed it like the leaves of a hazel wood in autumn. On one hand the land lay back to the haughlands and ordered fields, on the other it sloped steeply to the hills. Stumps of birk-trees and stray gnarled trunks came at times, but in general the ground was open and not unsuited for horses in the light of day. Now it was something more than difficult, for we came perilous near oftentimes to fulfilling my servant's prophecy. Once, I remember, I floundered fair into a trench of moss-water with a vile muddy bottom, where I verily believe both horse and man would have perished, had not Nicol, who saw my misfortune and leaped his beast across, pulled me fiercely from my saddle to the bank, and the twain of us together extricated the horse. In this fashion, floundering and slipping, we must have ridden some half-dozen miles. All drowsiness had vanished with the rough and ready mode of travel. Once more the thought of my lady and her plight, of my wrongs and my misfortunes, tormented me with anxiety and wrath, and stamped yet more firmly my errand on my soul.

Now, however, we were suddenly brought to an end in our progress. Before us lay a little ravine, clogged with snow, in whose bottom a burn roared. It was a water of little size, and, in summer weather, one might all but have leaped it. Now the snow had swollen it to the semblance of a torrent, and it chafed and eddied in the little gorge, a streak of dark, angry water against the dim white banks. There was nothing for it but to enter and struggle across, and yet, as I looked at the ugly swirl, I hesitated. I was nigh numbed with cold, my horse was aching from its stumbling, there was little foothold on the opposing bank. I turned to Nicol, who sat with his teeth shaking with the bitter weather.

"There is naught for it," said I, "but to risk it. There is no use in following it, for we shall find no better place in a ravine like this."

Even as I spoke my servant had taken the plunge, and I saw horse and man slip off the snowy bank into the foam. I followed so closely that I lost all sight of them. To this day I remember the feelings of the moment, the choking as an icy wave surged over my mouth, the frantic pulling at the bridle-rein, the wild plunging of my horse, the roar of water and the splash of swimming. Then, with a mighty effort, my brave animal was struggling up the further side, where my servant was already shaking the water from his clothes.

This incident, while it put me in better heart, vastly added to my bodily discomfort. An icy wind shivering through dripping garments may well chill the blood of the stoutest. And for certain the next part of the way is burned on my memory with a thousand recollections of utter weariness and misery. Even my hardy servant could scarce keep from groaning, and I, who was ever of a tenderer make, could have leaned my head on my horse's neck and sobbed with pure feebleness.

The country was now rough with tanglewood, for we were near the last spur of the hills, ere they break down on the river. Somewhere through the gloom lights were shining and moving, as I guessed from a ship on the water. Beyond were still others, few in number, but fixed as if from dwelling-houses. Here at last, I thought, is the town of Dumbarton which I am seeking, and fired with the hope we urged on the more our jaded beasts.

But lo! when we came to it, 'twas but a wayside inn in a little clachan, where one solitary lamp swung and cast a bar of light over the snowy street. I hammered at the door till I brought down the landlord, shivering in his night-dress. It might be that my cousin had halted here, so I asked the man if he had any travellers within.

"Nane, save twae drunk Ayr skippers and a Glesca packman, unless your honour is comin' to keep them company."

"Has anyone passed then?" I cried.

"How could I tell when I've been sleepin' i' my bed thae sax 'oor?" he coughed, and, seeing we were no sojourners, slammed the door in our face.

We were numb and wretched, but there was naught for it but to ride on further to the town. It could not be far, and there were signs of morn already in the air. The cold grew more intense and the thick pall of darkness lifted somewhat toward the east. The blurred woods and clogged fields at our side gradually came into view, and as, heart-sick and nigh fordone with want of sleep, we rounded the great barrier ridge of hill, an array of twinkling lights sprang up in front and told us that we were not far from our journey's end. Nevertheless, it was still dark when we rode into a narrow, cobbled street and stopped at the first hostelry.

Now, both the one and the other were too far gone with weariness to do more than drop helplessly from the horses and stagger into the inn parlour. They gave us brandy, and then led us to a sleeping-room, where we lay down like logs and dropped into a profound slumber.

When we awoke the morning was well advanced. I was roused by Nicol, who was ever the more wakeful, and without more delay we went down and recruited our exhausted strength with a meal. Then I summoned the landlord, and asked, more from habit than from any clear expectation, whether any travellers had lodged over night.

The man answered shortly that there had been a gentleman and a maid, with two serving-men, who had but lately left.

In a great haste I seized on my hat and called loudly for the horses. "Where did they go?" I said; "by what way? Quick, tell me."

"They took the road doun to the ferry," said he, in great amazement. "It's no an 'oor since they gaed."

Thereupon I flung him his lawing, and we rushed from the house.

CHAPTER V

EAGLESHAM

It was dawning morn, grey and misty, with a thaw setting in on the surface of the snow. Down the narrow, crooked streets, with a wind shivering in our teeth, we went at a breakneck gallop. I lashed my horse for its life, and the poor brute, wearied as it was by the toils of the night, answered gallantly to my call. Sometimes, in a steep place, we slipped for yards; often I was within an ace of death; and at one street-turning with a mighty clatter Nicol came down, though the next minute he was up again. A few sleepy citizens rubbed their eyes and stared from their windows, and in the lighted doorway of a tavern, a sailor looked at us wonderingly.

In less time than it takes to tell, we were at the water-edge. Here there is a rough quay, with something of a harbour behind it, where lie the sugar-boats from the Indies, when the flood-tide is too low to suffer them to go up stream to the city. Here, also, the ferry four times daily crosses the river.

Before us the water lay in leaden gloom, with that strange, dead colour which comes from the falling of much snow. Heavy waves were beginning to roll over the jetty, and a mist was drooping lower and ever lower. Two men stood by an old anchor coiling some rope. We pulled up our horses and I cried out in impatience where the ferry might be.

"Gone ten meenutes syne," said one, with no change on his stolid face. "There she is gin ye hae een i' your heid to see."

And he pointed out to the waste of waters. I looked and saw a sail rising and sinking in the trough of the waves.

"When does she return?" I cried out, with many curses on our laggard journey.

"Whiles in an 'oor, whiles in twae. She'll be twae the day ere she's back, for the ferryman, Jock Gellatly, is a fou' as the Baltic wi' some drink that a young gentleman gave him."

So we turned back to the harbour tavern, with all the regrets of unsuccess.

The man had said two hours, but it was nearer three, ere that wretched shell returned, and, when it came, 'twas with a drunken man who could scarce stagger ashore. I was in no mood for trifling.

"Here, you drunken swine," I cried, "will you take us across and be quick about it?"

"I maun hae anither gless o' Duncan's whusky," said the fellow, with a leer.

"By God, and you will not," I cried. "Get aboard and make no more delay, or, by the Lord, I'll throw you into the stream."

The man hiccuped and whined. "I canna, I canna, my bonny lad. I had ower muckle guid yill afore I sterted, and I maun hae some whusky to keep it doon. I'm an auld man, and the cauld air frae the water is bad for the inside. Let me be, let me be," and he lay down on the quay with the utter helplessness of a sot.

"Here is a devil of a mess," I cried to Nicol. "What is to be done?"

"I'll hae to tak the boat mysel', Laird," said my servant, quietly. "If I droon ye, dinna complain."

Indeed, I was in no mood for complaining at anything which would carry me further on my quest. With some difficulty we got the horses aboard and penned them in the stalls. Then Nicol hoisted the sail, and we shoved off, while I kept those at bay with a boat-hook who sought to stop us. Once out on the stormy waters I was beset with a thousand fears. I have ever feared the sea, and now, as we leaped and dived among the billows, and as the wind scoured us like a threshing floor, and, above all, as the crazy boat now almost lay sideways on the water, I felt a dreadful sinking of my courage, and looked for nothing better than immediate death. It was clear that Nicol, who knew something of seamanship as he knew of most things, had a hard task to keep us straight, and by his set face and white lips, I guessed that he, too, was not without his fears. Nevertheless, the passage was narrow, and in less time than I had expected, we saw a dim line of sand through the fog. Running in there, we beached the coble, and brought the horses splashing to shore.

The place was dreary and waste, low-lying, with a few huts facing the river. Beyond the land seemed still flat, though, as far as the mist suffered me to see, there seemed to be something of a rise to the right. My feet and hands were numbed with cold, and the wound in my wrist, which I got in scaling the wall, smarted till it brought the water to my eyes. I was so stiff I could scarce mount horse, and Nicol was in no better plight.

We rode to the nearest cottage and asked whither the folk had gone who landed with the last ferry. The woman answered gruffly that she had seen none land, and cared not. At the next house I fared little better; but at the third I found a young fisher lad, who, for the sake of a silver piece, told me that they had headed over the moor about three hours ago.

"And what lies beyond the moor?" I asked.

"Beyond the muir," said he, "is a muckle hill they ca' Mistilaw, a' thick wi' bogs, and ayont it there are mair hills and mosses, and syne if ye ride on ye'll come to Eaglesham, whaur the muirs end and the guid lands begin. I yince was ower there wi' my faither, aboot a cowt, and a braw bit place it is, and no like hereaways."

So Nicol and I, with dogged hearts and numbed bodies, rode into the black heath where there was no road. The snow had lost all hardness and was thick and clogging to our horses' feet. We made as good speed as we could, but that, after all, was little. About midday we had crossed the first part of our journey and were clambering and slipping over the shoulder of Mistilaw. This hill is low and trivial contrasted with our great Tweedside hills, but it well deserves its name, for it is one vast quagmire, where at all seasons mists and vapours hang. Beyond it, and all through the afternoon, we struggled among low hills and lochs. We halted at a solitary shepherd's hut among the wilds, and ate a vile meal of braxy and oaten-cake. Then again we set forth, and, in the darkening, came to the wide moor which is the last guard of the wastes and borders the pleasant vale of the Cart.