in company with Long Lauchie, and fought with himself the fiercest
battle in which he had ever engaged. Not since the day he had seen
Rory go down under Pat Murphy's feet had he been so sorely tried. And
the MacDonalds would say he had failed them because his son was about
to unite with one of the Caldwell crew. That was the sting of it!
Callum had always been the first in any aggressive enterprise of the
Oa, and Callum was now conspicuous by his absence. Sometimes Big
Malcolm was fiercely resolved to plunge headlong into the commotion and
compel his son to join him. And then calmer moments ensued; he could
not forget those winter prayer meetings and the wonderful leavening
effect they had had upon the community; nor could he forget Praying
Donald's prophetic warnings that all strife and enmity must certainly
bring retribution. No; he had forever put all feuds behind him, he
finally decided, and if the MacDonalds were about to engage in strife
with the Orangemen they must learn that he, Big Malcolm, was far above
and beyond any such unseemly brawlings.
But upon this evening when Scotty found him alone at the doorway, his
grandfather was experiencing none of the settled calm that might be
expected to follow such a laudable decision. For to-night the
MacDonalds were holding another mass-meeting at the house of Roarin'
Sandy to decide finally what punishment should be meted out to the
reckless Orangemen, and his very soul was crying out to be with them.
Scotty could elicit no answer to his remarks, and sat upon the
doorstep, a small, disconsolate heap, wondering sadly how his hero
could have made such a mistake, and finding in his own forlorn heart an
echo of the sweet, melancholy evening music. Around him the mosquitoes
wailed out their dreary little song; away down by the edge of the wet,
low pastures, where the fireflies wandered, each with his weird little
torch, the frogs were piping mournfully. The whitethroat was sending
out his "silver arrows of song" clearly and pensively from the depths
of the velvet dusk. The discordant twang of the swooping night-hawks
came down from the pale clear sky where one silver star had come out
above the black jagged line of forest.
Granny was moving about indoors; the boy could smell the sweet
fragrance of the new warm milk she was straining into the pans. The
air was heavy with the scent of clover, the world was very peaceful,
but very sad.
And then, out of the soft murmurs of the summer night, there grew a
strange new sound. At first it seemed merely a movement of the air, a
peculiar thrilling vibration. But gradually it grew into a note, a
high, weird musical note, alluring, electrifying. Scotty raised his
head from the grass. "What's that, Grandaddy?" he asked sharply. Big
Malcolm did not answer; he was sitting bolt upright, alert, tense,
listening as if for his life. For a moment the sound faded away, there
was a wondering silence. And then, suddenly, a little pine-scented
breeze came sweeping up from Lake Oro; and on it, high, clear,
entrancing, commanding, came again that wild penetrating call--the
bagpipes! playing up gloriously the MacDonalds' pibroch!
Big Malcolm leaped to his feet. It was the first time he had heard
that sound since it came ringing to him over the heather moors of his
native land. The pipes! The pipes on the hills of Oro! There was
neither prophecy nor precept, no, nor iron bands that could have held
him at that moment. With a wild outpouring of Gaelic, he sprang
forward, overturning the bench and the water-bucket by the doorstep;
and, coatless and hatless, went tearing across the fields and down the
road in obedience to that imperative call.
"Granny, Granny!" cried Scotty, running indoors in alarm, "what's gone
wrong with Grandaddy, will he be gone daft?"
Granny raised her hands in amazement and stood listening.
"Eh, eh!" she cried, "it will be the pipes! Och, och, lad, things will
be going wrong with Grandaddy now!"
The great day, the 12th of July, dawned radiant in sunshine like any
other Canadian summer day. Mr. Nash had made tremendous preparations
for his guests. He had his family up long before dawn and by dint of
much fluency of language, for which he was famous, managed by eleven
o'clock to have the banquet in readiness. Tables were set in the
dining-room and barroom, which two chambers constituted the ground
floor of the hotel proper. The lean-to kitchen at the back was
steaming with all the good things Mrs. Nash and her daughters and the
assisting neighbours had prepared; and by half-past eleven the host, in
a clean shirt and his Sunday trousers, stood on the front step ready to
receive with due ceremony the expected company.
Store Thompson's place across the way was surrounded by a crowd of
eager spectators, for such a spectacle as a procession had not been
witnessed in the Glen within the memory of the earliest settler. Then
there were rumours of trouble too; Pat Murphy and his friends were
there ready to produce it; and besides, everyone suspected that the
MacDonalds had some scheme afoot. Store Thompson himself was excited.
He had not seen Big Malcolm for more than a fortnight, and he was
anxious about his war-like friend. Surely, he told himself a dozen
times, Malcolm would never break forth into strife again after the
stand he had been taking during the past few winters for the bettering
of the community. And yet, as the kindly old gentleman confided to
Sandy Hamilton, who had stopped the mill and come up to see what was
transpiring, he could not help feeling "a wee thing apprehensive-like."
A few minutes before twelve, the appointed hour for the procession to
appear, the patience of the crowd was rewarded. Pat Murphy had just
assembled his satellites in the middle of the road and was haranguing
them and, incidentally, all the township of Oro upon their duties, when
a loud, shrill yell from the hilltops rent the air; there was a dull
thud, thud of marching feet. The procession was coming! For a moment
nationalities and creeds were both forgotten in a common desire to
witness the spectacle. English, Irish, and Scotch crowded eagerly into
the road; every eye was turned towards the south hill. Yes, the
procession was certainly coming, but what was this unearthly noise it
was making? And where were the fifes and the drums? And why, in the
name of all the cardinal points, was it coming down the north hill from
the Oa, instead of from the Flats?
And then there were no more questions, but just a sea of silent faces
held upwards in gaping amazement, for out from the pine grove of the
northern river-bank, with a shriek of pipes and a flutter of plaids,
whirled Fiddlin' Archie MacDonald in full Highland costume; and behind
him, armed and menacing, tramped every available male of the clan
MacDonald, from Long Lauchie's seventeen-year-old Peter, up to--yes,
alas, for the new era and its reforms!--Big Malcolm himself, all in
perfect time to the wild yell of the MacDonald pibroch!
Down they swept like a Highland charge, the pipes screaming out a
fierce challenge to anyone reckless enough to stand in their path, and
awakening such warlike echoes in the Oro hills as they had not given
back since the days when they rang to the war-whoop of Huron and
Iroquois braves.
And, indeed, had an army of redskins in war paint and feathers appeared
upon the hill, it is doubtful if it would have created any more
excitement. For, though the Oa was a Highland settlement, the bagpipes
had hitherto been an unknown instrument in the township of Oro. Hard
work and hard times had precluded the indulgence in any such luxury, so
the startled population of the valley witnessed for the first time that
magnificent combination of sight and sound known as a Highland Piper.
Upon Pete Nash the effect was almost disastrous. The expectant host
had been fortifying himself rather copiously against the duties and
trials of the day, and his brain was in no condition to bear any such
strain as the appearance of Fiddlin' Archie put upon it.
At the first sound he rushed into the road, his eyes bulging with
horror, his hands held up as if to ward off a blow. For Peter had once
been a good Catholic and knew he was committing a deadly sin in
harbouring these Orange heretics; and here, surely, were the hosts of
the Evil One, coming with shrieks of wrath to snatch away his guilty
soul in the midst of his iniquity. His distracted wife bounded after
him, a half-washed frying pan in one hand, a dishcloth in the other;
and seeing what was descending upon them she dropped both utensils and
wailed, "Och, the Powers come down, Pater! is it Gabriel's trump, then?"
No one noticed the stricken pair, for all eyes were fixed upon the
advancing column. Right up to the tavern door it marched, and when the
pipes ceased with a final defiant yelp, Big Malcolm, his eyes blazing,
his head erect, stepped forward and addressed the still trembling, but
much relieved, proprietor.
"We will be needing our dinner, Peter," he said very mildly, "for we
would be having a long walk, and mebby some work ahead of us, whatever,
so I hope you will jist be bringin' it on queek."
There was something in the intense politeness of Big Malcolm's tone
that aroused Mr. Nash's worst fears; a MacDonald was never so dangerous
as when he was courteous.
"And is it dinner for all this raft ye'll be after wantin', Malcolm
MacDonald?" he cried in alarm. "Sure, ye know I can't give ye a bite
nor sup the day, man; the byes from the Flats----"
"Whisht yer tongue, Pete Nash!" Big Malcolm's suavity vanished like a
wisp of straw in a flame. "Bring on yer grub, man, or"--he brought
down his big fist upon the nearest table with a crash that made both
the crockery and its owner leap--"we'll be eating your old carcass on
the doorstep!"
Mr. Nash gave a prompt and obsequious obedience. The Fighting
MacDonalds individually must ever be treated with respect, but the
Fighting MacDonalds in a body! Surely not the most vivid Orangeman
could blame him in his extremity. Perhaps the distracted landlord felt
that, after all, here was a providential means of escape from the crime
he had been about to commit, for very soon he had all Glencoe seated
about the well-spread tables, devouring the banquet prepared for
William of Orange.
The MacDonalds attacked the unholy viands with a zest that not even a
long tramp and a pioneer appetite could quite explain. Mrs. Nash flew
back and forth hospitably, explaining to her satellites, to cover up
any apparent irregularity in her husband's sudden change of patronage,
that indeed they were always pleased to have the MacDonalds with them,
and that she, for one, was very glad to see a Scotchman dressed the
right way.
"Sure Oi've got a sister in the owld country, married to a Scotchman,
thin," she explained quite proudly to Judy Connors. "He's in a Kiltie
rig'ment, an' his name's Pat O'Nale, an' aw now, it was him that had
the foine way o' swishin' his kilt whin he walked, indade!"
Meantime the feast was progressing; the great roasts of pork, the pies,
the cakes, and the puddings were vanishing like the snow on a March
noonday, when once more the assembly outside the tavern was
electrified, this time from the proper source. For from the summit of
the north hill there arose such a mighty banging and tooting as might
have been heard had the new sawmill, lately built on the shore of Lake
Simcoe, taken legs and gone on a mad excursion up over the Oro hills.
Down the slope with waving banners and thumping drums rode King William
himself in brave array, mounted on a white steed which bore a strong
resemblance to Tom Caldwell's old grey mare, and followed by a troop of
loyal subjects, all to the stirring squeak of "The Protestant Boys."
At the sight of this magnificent army marching straight into the jaws
of disaster, Pat Murphy uttered a yell of triumph that put the fifes
and drums to shame. Reckless with joy, he flew into the middle of the
road, and standing there facing the oncoming multitude, his wild eyes
blazing, his red beard and hair flaring out in all directions, he shook
his huge fist at the unoffending skies and called upon the sun and the
moon and all things created to witness the downfall of his enemies.
Fortunately for the usurpers, the steed of state which King William
bestrode, though old and decrepit, still adhered to a youthful habit of
shying, or the procession might never have reached the MacDonalds.
But, as the old grey mare approached the raving obstacle in her path,
she swerved coquettishly and King William curvetted round his enemy
with royal indifference. His subjects wisely followed his example; the
procession divided and streamed noisily on both sides of the profane
wedge which had cloven it, and which gallantly held its position waving
its arms and howling forth derision until the last Orangemen had swept
past.
But as the revellers tooted their victorious way down the street
towards the tavern, a strange sensation of impending disaster made
itself felt. The unwelcome fact began to dawn upon the Orangemen that
the clamour about them was neither composed of acclamation, nor yet of
the expected tumult of the outraged Murphys.
The suspicion grew to a horrible certainty by the time their
destination was reached, and the instant the procession halted, King
William, forgetting his royal dignity, scrambled from his horse and led
a hasty charge against the doors and windows of the tavern. Their
apprehension had been too correct. There, sitting at the Orangemen's
feast, were forty-nine armed MacDonalds, while the fiftieth swept round
the tables, his plaid flying, his kilt waving, his ribbons streaming,
and his pipes shrieking as if they would fain split the roof!
It was a crucial moment for the Glen; and, looking from his vantage
point on the verandah, Store Thompson held his breath. That the
Orangemen even hesitated to pitch themselves headlong upon the usurpers
showed that in the past two years the forces that make for law and
order had been steadily working. However it might be, they hesitated.
Perhaps they were assisted to a pacific decision by the sight before
them. There is nothing so disastrous to a man's fighting qualities as
an empty stomach. King William and his followers looked at their
dinner rapidly disappearing into the capacious interiors of Glencoe;
they looked at the stout clubs beneath the table; they glanced over
their shoulders at Pat Murphy and his men, waiting eagerly for the
MacDonalds to strike; they gazed at the terrible spectacle of Fiddlin'
Archie, whirling round the room in an eddy of defiant yells; and the
sights counselled discretion, rather than valour.
Slowly and sullenly they began to fall back from the doors and windows.
Even King William was about to join the retreat when, in glaring
fiercely round the tables, his eye chanced to fall upon the man whose
family was so soon to be connected with his own. At the sight, the
royal rage, already at boiling point, burst all bounds. Sticking his
crowned head far in through the window, and forgetting that he had made
a league with the MacDonalds to bring about a season of peace and
good-will in the community, Mr. Caldwell burst into wild and profane
vituperation. Commencing with Big Malcolm at the head of the table,
and, taking each in turn, he roundly and lengthily denounced the
MacDonalds and all their generation; and ended his mad tirade by vowing
by all things in heaven and on earth that before a daughter of his
should unite with any such scum of savagery as was produced in the Oa,
her father would strike her dead!
Such snatches of the royal ultimatum as managed to penetrate the scream
of the pipes the MacDonalds heard in silence. Occasionally a pair of
fierce eyes would dart a look of inquiry towards the leader, and once
or twice Weaver Jimmie half rose from the table; but, with wonderful
endurance, Big Malcolm held his men and himself down. He had broken
his great resolution, but even in his abandonment he could not quite
get away from the strong influence at home. No, he would not fight,
not unless Tom Caldwell pressed him too hard, and this refusal to
accept Callum into his family was nothing short of a blessing.
At last, through sheer dearth of remaining epithets, the royal address
came to a termination. With much brandishing of fists and shouting of
threats, the chagrined and hungry would-be revellers melted away before
the sound of the MacDonalds' jig and the Murphys' jeers.
And when the last atom of the banquet had been demolished and the
landlord paid to the utmost farthing the MacDonalds arose, and, headed
by their piper, went roaring up to their native hills, fired with the
triumphant assurance that they had that day performed a great and
glorious deed, and that at last Glencoe had been avenged.
VIII
THE END OF THE FEUD
There was a time I learned to hate,
As weaker mortals learn to love;
The passion held me fixed as fate,
Burned in my veins early and late,
But now a wind falls from above--
The wind of death, that silently
Enshroudeth friend and enemy.
--ETHELWYN WETHERALD.
To Scotty the days following upon the Orangemen's defeat were filled
with misery. Even when he spent the time at Kirsty's, fishing in the
streams or racing in the woods with Isabel, he could never quite forget
that there was trouble in the lately happy home beneath the Silver
Maple. For Granny's face was full of pain and anxiety, though she was
so brave and patient; and Grandaddy walked the floor at nights or
tramped up and down beneath the stars, and Callum was silent and gloomy.
Scotty did not understand just how much reason Callum had for gloom.
That young man had to contend with foes both at home and abroad. Tom
Caldwell had lost no time, upon his return home the
never-to-be-forgotten night of the Orangemen's downfall, in making very
clear to his daughter his views upon the burning MacDonald question.
Nancy had responded, with her usual spirit, by declaring that, when the
day arrived, she would marry Callum Fiach if the heavens fell. The
father understood his daughter's spirit and took no risk; the Caldwell
homestead was guarded by armed men in quite a mediaeval fashion; Nancy
was kept in strict seclusion and a cordial invitation was sent to
Callum to come on the wedding day with all the MacDonalds he could
muster and take his bride.
Callum would have gladly accepted the challenge had there been any hope
of assistance. But when Big Malcolm returned from the glorious defeat
of the Orangemen, his spirit still aflame, the sight of his son, who
had taken no part in their triumph, stirred him to fierce resentment.
"Callum!" he cried sternly, "I will be hearing no more about you and
any o' yon low Eerish crew. It is not for my son to be disgracing the
MacDonalds after this day's work!"
Callum's face went suddenly white and he rose from the table. "If you
mean Nancy Caldwell," he cried, "let me be telling you that I'll marry
her if she was the daughter o' the Deil, himself!"
Big Malcolm rose to his feet also, and the two men faced each other
fiercely. "The day ye marry any kin to that son o' Belial, Callum
MacDonald," he roared, shaking his fist in his son's face, "you will be
no more a son of mine!"
Callum laughed harshly, and flung out of doors. Scotty's big heart
swelled to bursting. Grandaddy and Callum quarrelling! It was too
awful to be believed. He dared not look at Granny's face, for he
dreaded what he would see there, but he crept up close to where she sat
by the bare table, her face in her hands, her breath coming in long
sobs. Granny's heart was breaking, he was sure, and his own heart was
breaking, too, for her, and for Callum, and for everyone.
The days that followed did not lighten the misery. Big Malcolm's
repentance came over him like a flood of many waters. He left the farm
to the care of the boys, and sat in the house, or wandered in the
fields, plunged in the deepest humiliation and despair. One look at
his wife's sad face would drive him to the barn or the woods, where he
would sit, Job-like, and curse the day he was born. Like Job, too, he
had three comforters who, though well-meaning and kind, served only to
deepen his spiritual gloom. Neither Store Thompson's solemn
admonitions nor Praying Donald's hints of stern retribution were
calculated to relieve his mind; and when Long Lauchie came across the
fields on a Sabbath afternoon to mourn over him and see dire fulfilment
of prophecy in his woeful case, he was driven to the verge of
desperation.
There was no pleasure at home, and whenever Scotty had an opportunity
he went visiting in the direction of Kirsty's. Isabel's companionship
afforded him much solace, and through her wonderful ingenuity came at
last a way out of his despair.
At first he had been reluctant to confide his troubles even to her; he
knew that Granny would speak of them to no one except the one great
Comforter, no, not even to Kirsty's mother; so he nursed his mournful
secret through one long miserable day. But Isabel's eyes were very
bright and soon spied the trouble in Scotty's face. So one day, as
they sat on the edge of the old log bridge and swung their feet in the
cool, brown water, he opened his heart fully.
To the boy's relief she seemed to think none the less of Callum for
wanting to marry an Irish girl. Some Irish people weren't bad, she
declared. For her Uncle Walter and Aunt Eleanor were half Irish.
Maybe she was some Irish herself, she generously conceded, but, at
Scotty's look of incredulous dismay, she hastily concluded that she
must be entirely and exclusively Scotch. But there was Danny Murphy,
that nice boy who brought her the maple sugar and the butternuts, he
was Irish; yes, and old Brian, their coachman, was Irish and said
"begorra," and Brian was a dear. And very likely Nancy must be one of
the nice Irish, or Callum would not want to marry her. And if they did
not let him marry her, then that would be an awful thing, for if Callum
failed to appear on the wedding day Nancy would certainly take the
heartbreak, like Aunt Eleanor, and be sick forever and ever, and have
to lie for days in a dark room and have headaches and nasty medicine.
Scotty's heart was wrung at the awful prospect. Was Isabel sure? Why,
of course, she knew all about heartbreak and disappointments and such
things. Scotty declared desperately that something must be done. And
without an instant's meditation Isabel burst forth with the brilliant
suggestion--why could they not take their pirate ship, sail down the
Oro to the Flats and carry Nancy off bodily?
Scotty was dazzled. This was a thrilling project, entailing, as it
did, an adventure in their wonderful vessel. For some time before the
close of school he and Danny Murphy had been copartners in a tremendous
secret enterprise. Down in the green tunnel made by the "Birch Crick,"
where it foamed along through a tangle of timber and underbrush, until
it found its way into the Oro, they had discovered, early that spring,
a derelict punt. This craft had come like an answer to prayer; they
had patched it up, launched it, and, before the holidays, had spent
aboard its rotten timbers days of perfectly abandoned joy. Several
times, indeed, they had made adventurous voyages out upon the Oro
itself, and had had hairbreadth escapes, for the vessel leaked and
accidents were frequent. But every boy of Number Nine school was an
amphibious animal, and such small things as shipwrecks mattered little.
With the close of school these happy excursions had to be given up.
Only once had the boys been on a voyage since, and then Isabel had
accompanied them, and they had not gone far. But here was a chance to
go on a wonderful tour. They would sail down to the Flats and steal
Nancy; perhaps they would even take a voyage down to Lake Simcoe and
away out upon the Atlantic Ocean and have fights with pirates and
Fenians. Scotty's ambition was fired to be away at once, but there was
one trouble--Isabel herself. She was all right at home, but her habit
of hanging on to his coat with both hands when danger threatened would
be embarrassing in public, and he did not even dare to think what Danny
would say if he saw him in such a disgraceful plight. And then he
conceived the rest of the brilliant plan himself. They would not steal
Nancy away this time, but they would go to the Birch Crick, and if
Danny was there they would send a message by him to Nancy, asking her
if she would not like to be kidnapped, and he mentally resolved that
Isabel could be put off while he and Danny performed the glorious deed.
Isabel, quite innocent of his traitorous plot, agreed to this
modification of her plan; and the next morning, having obtained
Kirsty's reluctant permission to go on an indefinite fishing
expedition, they set off down the Scotch Line, bursting with excitement.