THE BOTHY
Patsy had always been a wonderful runner. She could outpace her pony.
She could flee from Louis Raincy like the shadow of a wind-blown cloud
crossing a mountain-side, and on the sands, with none but Jean Garland
to see, Patsy could fleet it along the wet tide wash, sending the spray
about her as a swallow that skims a pond and flirts the surface with its
wings.
Old Diarmid mounted on the stile, balanced himself with his staff, and
looked. The dogs accompanying him cocked their ears in hopes of a chase,
but the next moment, their keen senses telling them that it was only
Patsy running over the heather, they settled down, marvelling that men
could be so strong with foot and hand and yet know so little.
There was half a mile to be run along the sands before turning up over
the hot glacier-planed stones of the moor. Diarmid Garland watched and
wondered. He had often seen Patsy giving his daughter Jean, of the
heavier and slower-moving blonde Scandinavian blood, half the distance
to Saythe Point and then passing her, as an arrow may miss and pass one
who flees. Now she moved like a leaf blown by the hurricane. Her white
feet in their sandals of yellow leather of Corinth hardly seemed to
touch the sand. Then Patsy turned up the crumbling cliffs at their
lowest point, mounting like a goat with an effortless ease till she
crowned the causeway of seaworn rock and plunged to the armpits into the
tall heather of the Wild of Blairmore.
Then Diarmid lost sight of the girl for a minute, but when he saw her
again she was far out on the perilous goat-track which led down to the
bothy itself. Diarmid scanned the distance with his eye--he knew the
length of time it would have taken a hillsman to go from point to point.
"That girl is a miracle," he muttered to himself, "she can run through
deep heather as fast as on the sand of the seashore."
He was wrong, however. She was only a Pictess, with some thousand years
of the heather instinct in her blood. Her body was lithe and supple, her
foot light, and her eye sure. Besides, she could hear what was hidden
and unheard at the stile on which Diarmid stood, the _rock-rock_ of the
short, steady navy stroke, which was pulling the landing-party from His
Majesty's ship _Britomart_ nearer and nearer to the Bothy of Blairmore.
Then she passed quite out of sight. She had a long descent before her,
sheltered seaward, so that she did not need to consider the danger of
being seen by the enemy. The leather of her sandals pattered like rain
on dry leaves on the narrow, twisted sheep-tracks, then mounted
springily over the bulls'-fell of the knolls of stunted heather, and as
it were in the clapping of a pair of hands, she appeared at the door of
the Bothy of Blairmore, scarce heated, quite unbreathed, but with grave
face and anxious eyes.
"Scatter!" she commanded, clapping her hands. "Off with you, lads! Take
to the hills. The press-gang is landing at this moment at the Abbey
Burnfoot to cut you off. Eben McClure is with them. He has heard of your
cargo-running and he wants to send you all to the wars."
"And what will _you_ do?" said Stair, who was always the boldest in
speech as he was the most reckless in action.
"I--oh, pray don't give yourself the least trouble about me, Stair
Garland. I shall stay here and wash the dishes."
The lads were declaring that under no circumstances should she remain
where she was, but Patsy had made up her mind. She must see what a
press-gang was like. She would see and speak with the officers who were
at the head of it. Perhaps they had their side to it also, which would
be worth the finding out. And the spy--she had never seen a spy, a
marker-down of men--so she resolved to see this Eben McClure, the most
hated man in all Wigtonshire. She would stay, and it was with a certain
imperiousness that she ordered the boys away.
They went reluctantly, but they knew that because she was the daughter
of a magistrate and a laird, nothing serious would happen to her, while
they risked life and liberty every moment they stayed.
"Do you think I ran all the way from the bathing cove for nothing?" she
said. "Save yourselves, lads. Do as I bid you and at once."
They went, though it was not with the best grace in the world. Stair
wore a scowl on his handsome face as he slung his gun over his shoulder.
Only Fergus thanked her for having come to warn them.
"Hold your tongue," said Patsy, peremptorily, "get out of sight. Keep
yourselves safe. That is the best thanks, and all that I ask for from
you."
* * * * *
So it came about that fifteen minutes later, Lieutenant Everard of the
_Britomart_, disembarking with Captain Laurence of the Dragoons and the
Superintendent of Enlistments, Mr. Ebenezer McClure, came upon a picture
framed in the doorway of the Bothy of Blairmore. Patsy had spread Jean
Garland's scarlet sash to its broadest, and so had been able to let down
her skirt of blue linen till it came to almost her ankles, above which
the yellow cross-gartering of the sandals was diamonded in the Greek
fashion her Uncle Julian had taught her.
Patsy had found piles of unwashen dishes and spoons, for the boys of the
Glenanmays family depended for cleaning up upon uncertain,
semi-occasional visits, from one or other of their sisters. What they
wanted at the time they took out and washed in the pleasant tumble of
the hill brook which passed their door on its way down to meet the Abbey
Burn a little above Uncle Julian's house. The rest they left.
The two officers of His Majesty stood a moment too astonished for
speech. This was not at all what they had come out to find, nor what
their men had been posted all about the bothy to secure in case of an
attempt to escape.
Patsy nodded brightly to her visitors, and the officers saluted,
without, however, abandoning their gravity. The third man, a long, lean,
hook-nosed fellow with curly black hair plastered about his brow and
tied in a greasy fall of ringlets on his shoulders, frowned and growled.
He had understood at once that the game was up. If the authority had
been his, he would have had the sailors and marines scouring the
hillside and searching every rift in the rocks.
"May I ask you," said Captain Laurence, a tall, good-looking, blond
officer, bowing to Patsy, "where the young men Garland are to be found?
We had come with warrants for their taking. This is His Majesty's
press."
"Ah," said Patsy easily, "so you are the press-gang--let me look at you.
I have never seen a 'press' before. Where are your handcuffs? Which of
you is the chief executioner? You tie up the poor fellows, they tell
me."
"I must ask you to explain your presence here," said Captain Laurence,
who had grown hot all over at being spoken to in this fashion.
"This is the Maid Marian of the gang," suggested Lieutenant Everard of
the _Britomart_, with a sneer. "I have seen something like this get up
in the Gulf of Corinth."
"Then you are a lucky man," said the captain of dragoons. "All the same
I must ask you to account for your presence here, young lady."
"Rather might I ask you to explain yours," said Patsy, breathing on a
glass, rubbing it, and holding it up to the light. "You are trespassing
on my father's ground--and from what I see of your arms, in pursuit of
game!"
"And who is your father, madame?"
"I have quite as good a right to ask you for the name of yours!"
The officers laughed and glanced at each other.
"Not quite," said the dragoon; "you observe that we are on special
duty--"
"I should indeed hope so," said Patsy, standing up with her drying-cloth
in her hand and shaking it contemptuously at them. "Special duty,
indeed, that means the chasing of honest men and honest men's sons at
the bidding of spies!"
"It is a duty which I perform as seldom as possible," said Captain
Laurence. "Naturally I would rather be fighting the foes of my king and
country, but as to that I am not consulted. Besides, the naval and
military forces of the realm must be recruited in some way or other!"
"I should have thought that treating men like criminals was not the best
way to make brave soldiers of them!"
"Tell us your father's name," broke in Lieutenant Everard, a small dark
man, very nervous and restless, with eyes that winked continually and
impatient fingers that fiddled endlessly with the tassel of his
sword-hilt. "We will not be put off longer. The men are escaping all the
time while you are left here to hold us in talk. If he be, as you say, a
gentleman and a magistrate, he will give us assistance in our search,
according to his oath."
"My father's name is Adam Ferris, of Cairn Ferris," said Patsy,
pleasantly. "But whether he will be at your service or not, I cannot
tell. As for me, if you are the gallant gentlemen you look, you will
bring me a pailful of fresh water from the spring--see, yonder at the
foot of the rock--ah, thank you!"
"Captain, we are wasting valuable time," insinuated Eben McClure, the
superintendent of recruitment, touching the officer lightly on the arm.
"Keep your dirty fingers off my sleeve, sir, and go to the devil. I
command here. Miss Ferris, I beg your pardon. I may as well fetch a pair
when I am about it."
Captain Laurence had noticed that the second pail contained very little
water. So with a quick heave he sent a shining spout in the direction of
the spy, who was drenched from knee to shoe-buckle. Then he caught up
the pails with a clash of their iron handles and with the easiest
swagger in the world took the direction of the spring, his spurs
jingling as he went. A sailor on guard behind the rock would have aided
him to fill them, but he told the man to keep his station, and dipped
for himself. He brought them back brimming and with a courtly bow
inquired of Patsy if she had any further commands for him, because if
not he must go about the duties of his service.
Patsy thanked him with the distinctive simplicity of one who has
officers of dragoons to carry water for her every day of her life. But
she went to the door and showed Captain Laurence the way over the ridges
to the house of Cairn Ferris. "My father is likely to be at home," she
said, "but if you do not find him, he is sure to be at my Uncle Julian's
at the Abbey. You have only to follow the glen."
"Your uncle?" said Captain Laurence, "your father's brother?"
"No, my mother's," said Patsy. "Mr. Julian Wemyss of Auchenyards and
Wellwood--and the best man in the world--the wisest too!"
"I shall have pleasure in making the acquaintance of your uncle; his
family (and that of your mother) is from my part of Scotland."
He bowed low and withdrew. The lieutenant of the _Britomart_ and the
Superintendent of Enlistments were in a state of incipient lunacy. Oh,
the fool! They would break him if they could. They would write to the
Secretary. They would--but as they growled and cursed behind him, Eben
McClure suddenly remembered that Julian Wemyss and my Lord Erskine were
first cousins, and that so long as the government remained in office, it
would be advisable to stand well with all friends and neighbours of the
Secretary, Erskines, Wemysses, Melvilles, wherever found. He was
unpopular enough in the country as it was. He could not afford to be
"ill seen" at headquarters as well.
Patsy found herself left alone in the bothy. But she knew that the two
men who had not spoken would certainly leave some hidden spy to watch
whether the young men returned, or if she attempted to communicate with
them.
Therefore she did not hasten. Jean would arrive before long with the
garments in which she had left home, and which she had shed, as it were
providentially, to be able to run the better across the sands of
Killantringan and the heathery fastnesses of the Wild of Blairmore.
Hardly had Patsy gotten the bothy to her liking--or something like
it--when Jean arrived, full of wonder and joy. She carried a parcel
under her arm, done up carefully in her neckerchief.
"It is a pity to change," she said, "you will never look so pretty
again!"
And she detailed with the admiration of generous youth the beauty of the
black locks, waved tightly about the small head, the pale blue linen
gown girt with the sash of scarlet silk, and the cross-gartered sandals,
showing Patsy's brown skin and pretty ankles half-way to the knee.
"It is a great shame," she repeated, "that you can't go about like that
all the time."
"I shall think it over," said Patsy; "but if I went to the kirk on
Sabbath dressed as you would have me, I believe Mr. MacCanny would have
me turned out."
"Yes," said the loyal Jean, "because nobody would be able to attend to
his sermon for looking at you!"
"But what are the lads going to do?"
"Oh," said Jean, "they have two or three places handy for lying up in.
They are snug by this time. At least Fergus and Agnew are. Stair I met
on my way here. He was lurking in a moss-hag with his gun ready for the
first red-coat or blue-jacket who should lift a hand to you."
"Send him off to join the rest," said Patsy more seriously. "I never was
in the least danger, and there is no doubt but that the man McClure has
left some of his rascals to watch the bothy."
"Then High Heaven help them if they come across Stair and his
blunderbuss. He will bring them down like so many partridges. Not even
father can manage Stair. He will take orders from no one, except in
matters of the farm. He is a good boy, and has great influence among the
young fellows, for he will stick at nothing. But he is easily angered,
proud, and often both reckless and desperate. You may be sure that he
will not leave you till he sees you safe in your own valley and among
your own people."
Patsy heard this with outward impatience, but, like every girl, with
something also of inward pride. She smiled at what Louis Raincy would
have to say to this constant watchfulness, and how she herself would
like it when next Louis and she climbed up to their "Nest" for one of
their long talks. Would Louis be in danger from the bullets of the
arrogant Stair?
She wondered if what Uncle Julian said could indeed be true--that though
the men's secret of the heather ale had been lost, the women of the
Picts would keep theirs and whistle men to heel, as sheep-dogs follow
their masters. Uncle Julian said that she had in her the blood of
Boadicca, who once on a day was a queen of the Picts far to the south.
But, after all, Uncle Julian jested so often, even when he appeared most
serious, that you could not tell whether he meant it or no.
It would be nice if it were true, thought Patsy, but, after all, just
because Uncle Julian said so did not make it true.
* * * * *
"Your daughter, sir," said Lieutenant Everard, half an hour later, "has
aided the escape of three young men, all deeply implicated in breaking
the laws of the land."
It was in the ancient hall of Cairn Ferris that Adam, tall, black and
solemn, was receiving unexpected visitors. The hall, oak-beamed and
still lighted mainly by tall, narrow windows, originally slotted for
arrow and blunderbuss, was discouraging for men in search of the support
of a modern justice of the peace.
The chief of a clan, some of whose members had been cattle-lifting,
might have received them so.
"What men? What laws?" demanded Adam Ferris.
"The young men Garland, sons of one of your tenants," said the officer;
"and as for the laws, they are those of His Majesty's excise."
"Ah," said Adam, dryly, "pardon me. Your uniform misled me. From your
dress I took you for a naval officer."
"And so I am," cried Lieutenant Everard indignantly; "of His Majesty's
ship _Britomart_, presently cruising in these waters."
Adam Ferris bowed gravely, as one who receives valuable information.
"I congratulate you," he said. "As for the young men, Fergus, Stair and
Agnew Garland, they are fine lads and a credit to the neighbourhood. I
cannot imagine that they have anything more to do with the traffic of
which you speak than I myself. But if they have been reported to you as
guilty, I am prepared to take cognizance of the evidence. I presume you
did not come here without a warrant."
"We need no warrant," said the Lieutenant. "I am in command of His
Majesty's press."
The expression of Adam Ferris's face changed suddenly.
"My tenants and my tenants' sons are not subject to the press-gang.
There are no sailors among them--no, nor yet any fishermen."
"Captain Laurence of the dragoons is with us, sir," interpolated Eben
McClure; "he has a right to beat up for recruits for the land forces."
"Ah," said Adam, "at fairs and markets, with fife and drum--yes! But not
all over my estate, nor yet to meddle with my tenantry."
"He has particular permission from Earl Raincy," said the spy.
"I am not Earl Raincy, nor are my lands his," quoth Adam Ferris; "but,
by the way, where is this Captain Laurence of whom you speak?"
The question seemed to embarrass the two men. "He was with us," said the
Lieutenant at last, "but having discovered some fancied kinship with
your brother's family, he separated himself from us and went (as I
believe) to his house of Abbey Burnfoot!"
"Then I hope he does not press Julian for the cavalry. His cousin, the
Secretary, might have something to say to that!"
Altogether there was small change to be got out of Adam Ferris, and as
they gathered their men and, marched them off, they fell foul one of the
other, the officer with his exercised sea-tongue having much the better
of the word-strife. But presently they were friends again, both cursing
Captain Laurence of the dragoons for deserting them in their time of
need.
"I believe," said Lieutenant Everard, "that Laurence simply turned in
his tracks and went back to that bothy to carry more water for the
black-headed girl!"
This, however, was of little moment to the Superintendent of
Enlistments, who had a bounty upon every pressed man safe drafted to
headquarters or delivered on board ship.
"At any rate," he said, "we have lost our men, and we are little likely
to see them again!"
The Lieutenant turned angrily upon him.
"You are thinking of your dirty dollars," he said bitterly. "It is for
the sake of such as you that His Majesty's officers must be treated like
huckstering excisemen by every dirty Scot who owns as much ground as a
cow can turn round in! 'My estate!' 'My tenantry'--paugh, and the back
of his hand to you because you are no better than an Englishman!"
"The Ferrises are an ill folk to come across!" insinuated the
Superintendent of Enlistments.
Everard turned hotly upon his companion.
"And who brought us here to rub noses against rough stones climbing your
accursed dykes, only to be insulted by country bumpkins and outwitted by
half-clad minxes? You are a spy, and no fit company for gentlemen. I
tell you so much to your face. But when you are in your own country and
doing your foul business, you might at least have your information
correct before calling out the forces of His Majesty."
And ten minutes later the boat of the _Britomart_ was being rowed fast
in the direction of that ship, because the men knew well that their
officer was in no mood to be trifled with.