THE TRAMPLING OF HORSE IN THE NIGHT
Whitefoot the brown-eyed, intent on his business, was taking his usual
route to Ladykirk. It was a dark night, but he could see more and
farther than any man. He knew that Patsy would be waiting for him in the
kitchen of Miss Aline's house, that she would have something extremely
toothsome for him to eat while she was preparing the collar which in a
few minutes would be slipped about his neck. Then he would be free to
return to his master in the secret den which he had chosen to sleep in
that night.
Whitefoot moved like a lank and ghostly wolf through the tall grass and
crops, skirting the barer places and keeping close in to the dusky
verges of the hedges. All went well with him till he took the ha-ha
ditch at his usual racing pace, and was instantly wrapped up by a net
into a kicking ball exactly like a rabbit at the mouth of a hole. A bag
was somehow slipped over his head, and inside it he could neither bite
nor bark. His nose was tightly held and his collar removed.
It seemed ages to Whitefoot before he found himself free again. Then he
wasted no time, but made one bolt for the kitchen door of Ladykirk. It
was open, and he entered all dazed and shaking. He had felt the hands of
men about him, yet they had done him no harm. He shook himself joint by
joint to make sure. All was right. Perhaps they were only out hunting
and he had deranged them. Whitefoot knew quite well what it was to chase
rabbits and hares into just such nets. At any rate he could not explain,
but took the piece of beef which Patsy had waiting for him with
satisfaction.
On his return Whitefoot tried the garden-hedge farther down, but here
again he found himself in a bag. Evidently they were netting the whole
of the garden. He lay still, certain now that they meant him no harm,
and, indeed, in a far shorter time than before he was loose and scouring
away into the shadows of the woods. This time the man into whose nets he
had blundered, merely stood behind a tree, and at sight of his shadowy
figure Whitefoot got himself out of the neighbourhood. Men with nets,
guns that went off with a bang, and dead things that kicked and bled
were connected in Whitefoot's mind with such night expeditions. So no
wonder he betook himself away as quickly and as unobtrusively as
possible.
But the message that Patsy received was this:
_"Important see you to-morrow night, smaller avenue gate, ten
o'clock._
"JEAN."
To this Patsy had replied, moistening the stub of her "killevine" in her
mouth as she had been wont to do at school:
_"Dear Jean,--of course I shall be there!"_
* * * * *
Never fell gloaming so slowly for Spy Eben of Stonykirk as that of
Friday the 26th of June. The red in the west mounted ever higher,
revealing and painting infinitely the remote strata of cloud-flecks
which thinned out into the azure. At half-past nine it seemed that ten
o'clock would find the old military road upon which debouched the little
avenue of Ladykirk, still as bright as upon a mellow afternoon.
But arriving suddenly and surpassing all his hopes, a wind from the sea
began to blow, bringing up the outside fog from the ocean. First it came
in puffs and slow dragging wreaths, but afterwards with the march of
steady army corps which sponged out the house, the trees and the road.
By ten all was slaty grey dusk, into which a man could stretch his hand
well out of his own sight. The heart of the Spy exulted. It was a thing
so unexpected, and (for he remembered his upbringing) so providential,
that he almost returned thanks, as after an unexpected meal.
He did so quite when a little after the hour rapid feet pattered down
the lesser avenue, a hand was thrust from a shawl, and Patsy's voice
called "Jean--where are you, Jean?"
In an instant the girl was swept from her feet, enveloped in a great
travelling coat, and carried to a carriage that was in waiting close
against the hedge under the black shadow of the beech leaves. Patsy had
no time to cry out. She was too astonished. Besides, the large hand of
Eben the Spy was pressed against her mouth. She felt herself thrust
without ceremony into a carriage on the front seat of which sat two men,
dark shadows seen for a moment as the door opened, against the pour of
the sea-mist past the windows.
"I think," said a voice, "you had better let me manage her--for the
present, that is. She has just bitten me. Ah--quick with that Indian
shawl. Thank you, my Lord. We must keep her from crying out. Now, my
pretty, there you are with your ankles tied and your hands kept from
mischief, so we shall soon reconcile ourselves!"
Patsy strove vehemently, but the arm about her was strong. Her feet and
hands were fastened with soft swathes of silk, while about her mouth and
chin the Indian shawl proved an efficient gag.
She could hear the clatter of the horses' feet, and was conscious of the
rapid movement of the carriage. Once or twice the man on the front seat
leaned over and spoke soothingly to her, or so at least it seemed. But
he appeared to be sorely at a loss for words.
"You will be glad of all this to-morrow," she recognized the thick voice
of the man whom she had made hold her wool; "you shall be my little
black pearl!"
"Better let her come round of herself, your Highness," said the man who
held her. "They take it a bit hard at first, but after the anger and the
tears, then it will be time to argue with her."
The man addressed as "your Highness" dropped back into his seat, and for
a long time nothing was heard but the changeful clatter of the shod feet
of horses. Patsy sat muffled and helpless, conscious that she had been
trapped, but determined that since somebody had dared, somebody also
should die before a hand was laid upon her. She felt strangely at home.
Her Pictish blood spoke--perhaps still older bloods, too, within her. It
was somehow perfectly natural that a man should try to carry her off.
She was obscurely but surely aware that men of her race had done things
like that. But then, also, they did them at their peril. And Patsy the
Pict felt herself strong enough for these things. It was the age of Miss
Jane Austen's dainty heroines. Miss Fanny Burney was still at court,
writing in her _Diary_ that the King was very happy and innocent,
imagining himself each day in intimate converse with the angels.
But Patsy had no idea of fainting. Tears were far indeed from her eyes.
She was only calling herself a fool, and wishing that she had thought to
bring her little dagger with her--the double-edged one that Julian
Wemyss had given her on his return from the Canary Islands, black
leather sheath scrolled in gold to be worn in the stocking. Still since
she had not that, why, she would take the first weapon that came to her
hand. And whenever they ran dear of the fog, which happened at the top
of every considerable hill, her little white teeth gleamed in the
darkness with something like anticipation.
* * * * *
"Up, Louis, out with you--they are away! The Prince has carried off
Patsy. Here is your pony. Get in the saddle. I must manage without!"
Unceremoniously Stair Garland awaked Louis from his drowse in the cave's
mouth. He had ridden down from Castle Raincy to see if he could help.
The moment had come and Stair had not disappointed him.
"They are already on the road--in a carriage--Kennedy McClure's, I
think," said Stair; "stand still there, Derry Down, or by the Holy--!"
And he leaped into his saddle which was no more than the corn-sack
doubled and fastened close with broad bands of tape, used to go under
the heavy pack saddles when a run was forward.
"Where have they gone? Are they far ahead of us?" questioned Louis.
"They are on the military road--in a carriage and pair, going west. They
cannot get off it. But if you can trust your pony, we can cut corners
and ride as we like."
"Of course," said Louis; "show me the way--you know it better than I!"
So, each on his deft, sure-footed Galloway pony, like their ancestors of
the English forays of which Froissart tells, the two lads plunged into
the night.
They sped along the barren side of the Moors, taking any path or none,
whisking through the tall broom and leaping the whins. The ponies took
naturally to the sport. Sometimes the going was heavier, but not for so
little did the animals slacken. They were to the manner born, and minded
no more the deep black ruts of the peat, which in the more easterly
country are called "hags," than the open military road along which the
carriage was bowling.
The heather was mostly short and easy--"bull's fell" heather as it was
named. Tall cotton grass flaunted up suddenly through the slaty haze of
the night of pursuit. The plant called "Honesty" with its flat, white
seed vessels, gaunt and startling, swished past them, the dry pods
crackling among their horses' legs.
Mostly they rode easily, swaying to the movements of their beasts,
letting the little horses do the work as the Lord of the moors gave them
wisdom to do--using no whip or spur--these were not needed--and very
little guidance of rein. The little Galloways, Louis's black "Honeypot"
and Stair's "Derry Down," picked their way swiftly and cleanly. They
might have been steering by the stars. But it was only their instinct
sense of smell which told them when they were approaching a bog too soft
to be negotiated. Then they would turn their faces to the hill, questing
for the good odour of the "gall" or bog-myrtle, which is the
characteristic smell of good going in the Galloway wilderness. Stretches
of that delightful plant surround all bogs, morasses and other
dangerously wet spots, but the little beasts knew that so far as they
were concerned they were safe where the gall bushes grew. And, indeed,
it was well to keep wide. On the moorland face the silver flowes
glittered unwholesomely, deadly as quicksands in the Bay of Luce. It was
marvellous to see how gingerly the little beasts footed it in such
places. Never did they let a foot sink to the fetlock. With a quick
flinging swerve, they cast themselves to the side of safety and the foot
would come loose with the "cloop" of an opening bottle.
Sometimes the sand was firm, and then they would scour fearlessly along
it with many tossings of their heads and playful attempts at biting one
another. But so soon as they came upon the green froth of the "quaking
bogs" or the snake-bell shine of the shivering sands, it was each for
himself again--or rather for himself and herself, for Stair's mount was
a small barren mare, which in such things is even better than a horse,
better and more cunning, besides being more companionable for her
journey-mate.
They rode through banks of midges so huge that they almost reached the
dignity of mosquitoes. For where in the world except on the lonely road
past Clatteringshaws and the Loch of the Lilies, can you meet with
midges which for number and ferocity can compare with those of the Moors
of Wigtonshire? Sometimes the two lads, riding easy, would come to
water. This was a negotiation which was better left to Honeypot and
Derry Down. If the water was black and peaty with a heavy smell of
rotting vegetation, the ponies knew it, but if they scented the fresh
rush of a hill burn, or the soft coolness of an arm of sandy-bottomed
loch, then Louis and Stair would suddenly feel the cool sluicing of
water about their legs, causing them to turn their pistol belts over
their shoulders, where Stair already carried his long-barrelled gun with
the stock upwards.
"We shall close upon them at the White Loch," said Stair, during one of
these pauses. "They have a long detour to make. I would rather have
waited till they had got to the crossing of the Tarf, but that is too
far for our beasts on these short nights of June."
(He meant the Wigtonshire Tarf, which comes from far Laggangairn and the
Bloody Moss, not the shorter, fiercer tributary of the Dee.)
"The White Loch be it," said Louis, for indeed it was all the same to
him. He was out to fight for Patsy, and fight he would. He did not care
what his grandfather might say, nor what penalties he might incur. What
Stair Garland was ready to do for Patsy, surely he had the better right
to be a partner in.
They drove through a herd of kyloes recently sent down from Highland
hills to try their luck on Galloway heather. The horns clicked sharply
together. There was a whisking scamper of hoofs as the beasts fled every
way, only to bunch anew a little farther out of the path of these wild
riders.
Now Stair and Louis found themselves on a kind of track, narrow and
stony underfoot. The blackfaced sheep of the hills had made it so, with
their little pattering trotters which dug out a stone at every step.
Above was a waste of boulder, grey teeth grinning through the black
heather. They began to see more clearly, for they were now far above the
mist, into which they would not again need to descend till they should
reach the White Loch and cut down to head off their prey, comfortably
rolling Gretnawards--a duke royal, a peer of the realm, and a spy with a
promise of fortune in his breastpocket, all looking after Patsy Ferris,
the daughter of the Picts, and drawn by Kennedy McClure's excellent pair
of horses along the best road in all the south country.
Sometimes a wilder track led Stair and Louis unbreathed across an open
moor, the path being too narrow to ride abreast, when it was the mare's
privilege to lead. She snuffed the air, and even while keeping to her
pace, would reach forward her neck to smell the better. Derry Down knew
that she was on one of the old "drove roads" by which horses had been
driven to the eastern fairs and trysts for hundreds of years, before
ever Lord Hillsborough came into the land, or the pick of a governmental
sapper had been set in the heather.
Generally the pursuers kept wide of all human habitation. They could see
the stars now, and so in a manner choose their direction. The details
they left to the horses, and especially to Stair's wise "Derry Down."
But the scent of a single "keeping" peat in a herd's house would send
them all up the hill again. It had been carefully bent over the red
ashes to hold them alight till the morrow, for the goodwife's greater
ease on rising, and also because it was the immemorial custom of all
Moor folk from Killantringan even to the Moss of Cree.
A fly-by-night bumblebee, honey-drunk, followed the cavalcade
blunderingly a little way, perhaps in the hope that they who seemed to
know their way so well, might lead him safely home, ring the door-bell
for him, and tumble him into the lobby of his home under the bent
tussock where he fain would be. Nevermore would he stay out so late
again. So much he would gladly promise the reproachful wife who had sat
up for his coming.
But the ponies drew away, and there was nothing for him but to snuggle
down with a buzz and a grumble among the wet bluebells and wait for
daybreak, for sobriety and with it a new sense of direction.
Occasionally Stair urged his mare forward, though only by a closer clip
of the knees. She was a willing beast, and responded gallantly. It was
easy going now, and the night was speeding quickly. Presently they would
need to go down the side of the fell, and skirt the White Water to their
ambush place at the head of the Loch. Of this last, Stair thought
exclusively. But with more of the mystery of an older race about him,
Louis Raincy listened to the firs whispering confidences overhead as
they sped downhill. Then came the birches' clean rustle--for the burn
they were following led them among copses where the legs of the horses
risped with a pleasant sound through the lash of leaves.
The ponies were going easily now, their masters being sure that they
were far in advance of their time. They had cut the circle cleanly, and
those they were pursuing would have to make nearly three times the
distance they had traversed.
Besides, Patsy's captors did not know they were being pursued. Never
once did the "clash of the spurs" warn them that Care and his horsemen
rode behind.
As the two came down from the high moors, tracking cautiously through
the woods and stray belts of culture which hung about the thatched
steadings and shy, deep-hidden farm-towns, a wildness awoke in Stair
Garland. The little mare, Derry Down, responded to his mood. She held
her head high, and capered like an unbitted yearling fresh off the first
spring pastures.
Louis rode more quietly and also more steadily, and especially so when
at last they got down to a made road in the valley of the White Water.
Here Louis had several times to urge his companion to save the beasts a
little, for if they rescued Patsy, they would need to bring her home on
one or the other of them.
"We have to settle our accounts first," said Stair, "then we will think
about taking her back to those who knew so ill how to protect her!"
He was silent a moment and then added as if in pity for Louis's
ignorance, "See here, man, this is all my country. Think you there is a
farm where I could not leave the ponies and get the loan of other? We
are on the main caravan trail of the Free Traffickers, and there are few
hereabouts who would venture to refuse Stair Garland."
Perhaps there was some boyish pride in this, but Louis had been long
enough within the sound of the jingling anker chains and the creaking
pack saddles to know that Stair spoke well within the truth. He felt
with a sudden pang that in this rescue of Patsy he was playing a very
secondary part. But the true nobility of soul shown by Stair Garland was
not at the time revealed to him. He did not understand the reason why
Stair had brought him at all. It was because he disdained to take an
advantage. He would not magnify himself in Patsy's eyes while Louis,
unwarned, slept in his bed at Castle Raincy.
Whatever the odds against him, Stair would give his adversary the floor,
and at the end of the day accept the umpire's judgment as to which was
the better man.