THE FECHTIN' FOOL
These were hard days for Stair Garland. He alone had planned and carried
out the deliverance of Patsy. He had dared the spilling of the blood
royal, yet he had given all the profit of it over into the hands of
another. And now Louis Raincy had Patsy safe within the walls of his
grandfather's castle, and all that remained for Stair was liberty to
keep watch and ward outside.
I do not imagine that Louis cared much about the matter. Why should he?
He had other things to think about--bright, young, heart-stirring things
that danced and glistened, flitting up before him just as a sudden
wind-gust may for a moment turn a petal-strewn garden path all rosy.
But, to make up for such ingrate forgetfulness, Patsy thought a good
deal. She knew--no woman could have helped knowing--the fact of Stair's
devotion. But then she had always accepted it as quite natural, which it
was. Also as calling for no particular notice, except, as it were, for a
certain graceful obliviousness on her part, modified by a possessive
glance or two from her fearless black eyes--glances for which Stair
watched more alertly than he had ever gazed into the night for the
signal flashes from the _Good Intent_.
But now he, Stair the doer, was without while Patsy was within with
Louis the dreamer. At this time Stair had more liberty to come and go.
He could now spend some of his days at Glenanmays helping his brothers
and sisters in any emergency. The attack upon the Duke of Lyonesse had
been hushed up--so far, that is, as any official inquiry was concerned.
The matter was not even referred to in Parliament.
It had been announced that the Prince had been hurt somewhat seriously
in a carriage accident, frequent in travelling through such wild lands
as Ireland and the south of Scotland. People averred that he would find
himself safer on the Mall or climbing the slopes of Primrose Hill.
And meanwhile McCarthy, the Irish doctor who attended him, said nothing
about the gunshot wound in the thigh which caused the Duke to walk with
a slight limp ever after.
Stair, of course, knew nothing of this in detail. But he was keenly
alive to the results. With the disappearance of McClure the Spy the
press-gang work was suspended for a time, and, though a party of light
horse lay in Captain Laurence's old quarters at Stranryan, they confined
their trips to sending recruiting parties in an above-board way to the
fairs and market towns.
At the end of harvest they would doubtless make a good haul among the
foolish young men who had been at the southern reaping. These, having
spent their cash in Carlisle or Dumfries, would be afraid to face their
people at home, and might be expected to take his Majesty's shilling
with alacrity.
Without the support of the military, led by so experienced a man as Eben
McClure, with local knowledge and connections, the Preventive men
displayed no initiative, and seldom ventured far from their barracks on
the cliff. They might surround an alehouse in a village with all the
pomp and circumstance which shows zeal and is put down to the
Supervisor's credit as an efficient officer. But word was always sent
before, so that everything dutiable might be removed in the night.
So fearless did the Free Traders become that not a week passed without a
successful run at the Waterfoot or in the Mays Bay, and such vessels as
the _Star of Hope_ from the Texel and the _William Groot_ (everywhere
known as the "Billy Goat") of Flessingue, thought it worth their while
to come to the coast of Wigton with full cargoes of tea, Hollands,
brandy, lace, and tobacco.
All this stir in his own business did Stair a great deal of good. It
kept him from grieving about Patsy. Besides, the constant adventure of
the night and the lying up in the Cave of Slains during the day, enabled
him to sleep off his weariness and kept him away from the neighbourhood
of Castle Raincy.
Sometimes, however, he used to lie out with Whitefoot, hidden deep among
the bog-myrtle and small silvery willows. On these occasions he would
talk to his dog with such earnestness that Whitefoot used to shake all
over with sympathy, whining softly as he laid his shaggy muzzle on his
master's knee as if in agony because he was unable to speak.
"Those were better days than this, Whitefoot," said Stair, "when she
stood on the bookboard of Peden's Pulpit and we watched her through the
broom, before you took the road to fetch sister Jean."
At the words Whitefoot leaped up delightedly and gave his short silent
bark. He thought he was to be trusted with another message.
"No, Whitefoot, no," said his master, and the dog's waving tail dropped
suddenly. "I know you would go to Jean or even find Patsy through the
gates of Castle Raincy, but it would do no good. I am not of her world.
I am only the 'fechtin' fool.' Not that I am complaining,
Whitefoot--that is what you and I are for, Whitefoot. We have fought
before and may again. But she is not for us, lad--a laird's
daughter--what could we do with the like of her if we had her?--A
captain of smugglers and his dog, Whitefoot! That's what we are. Nothing
better!"
"_Rouch_," said Whitefoot, his brown eyes flashing and his ears cocked.
He kept up a little alternate dancing motion on his fore paws, raising
his body from the ground without ever ceasing to hold his master's eyes
for a moment. "Oh, I know _you_ love me, Whitefoot, but that does not
help much just for the minute, lad. We are at the ban of the law, and
the coastguards would hang you as gladly as they would gaol me if they
could catch either of us. Only just at present we have the whip hand of
them. They have a shrewd suspicion that the hand which filled a Royal
Duke with slugs would not be backward in serving them the same. And,
particularly to an exciseman, a whole skin is a whole skin."
Whitefoot growled at the word "exciseman," showing a set of firm white
teeth under a black bristly lip turned up wickedly at the corners.
"But this will not always last, lad," Stair Garland went on, "the wars
will blow over and they will have men and troops to stop all this open
cargo-running. Then they will never beat us altogether, and for years
and years they will have the upper hand in their turn. What will come of
you and me then, Whitefoot? We shall have to foot it, far afield, lad.
Fergus will have the farm when my father has done with it. Agnew takes
to books and will get learning. But the 'fechtin' fool' must still be
the fechtin' fool. And there is no outgate for him except what he can
make with his two hands.
"What has he to do with falling in love, Whitefoot?--Answer me that,
silly dog, instead of lickin' and slaverin' all over my hand! Can he
marry? No. Would he take any woman into this life of straits and hidings
and ambushes? No! And yet what a fool he is because Patsy (oh,
Whitefoot, our little Patsy!) being a laird's only daughter, goes for a
while with her own kind as she must at the last. What a fool you have
for a master, Whitefoot! Tell him so!"
"_Ow-oww-ouch!_" The dog's answer came in a kind of furious shout that
was at once a defiance of fate, of the dread Power which deprived
masters of their heart's desire and dogs of speech, shutting them both
in within the narrow bounds of a hard necessity.
Stair soothed the dog with one hand, for he could hear his heart thump
in short laboured leaps as if after a long pursuit of a dog-fox on the
hillside.
"It is all no use, Whitefoot," he went on, more gently, "but after all
you are a friend, and it does me good to talk to you. You are always on
my side, and I do believe that you understand better than any one else.
But now the moon is up we must be going down to the Cave of Slains, or
perhaps the Calaman. Stand up, Whitefoot, and say good-night to Patsy
before she goes to bed."
Stair rose bareheaded on his rock and looked towards the head of the
long bare glen, above which he could see the grey towers of Castle
Raincy touched to silver by the moonlight. Some windows were still
illuminated on the ground-floor, but higher up only one held a light.
Stair waved his hand towards it.
"Come on now," he said encouragingly to Whitefoot. "Speak--give it
tongue! Say good-night to Patsy. She will never know."
And along with his master's shout there went out towards that single
light high on the side of the castle wall, the dog's cry to which Stair
had trained him for night signalling. And it came to the ears of Patsy
as she leaned from her high window, long and lonely and bleak as the
howl of a wolf, outcasted from the pack.
Patsy shuddered and shut down the window.