The essence of all human melancholy is in the sentiment of farewells.
There are people roving about the world, to-day here, to-morrow afar,
who cheat fate and avoid the most poignant wrench of this common
experience by letting no root of their affection strike into a home or
a heart Self-contained, aloof, unloved, and unloving, they make their
campaign through life in movable tents that they strike as gaily as they
pitch, and, beholding them thus evade the one touch of sorrow that is
most inevitable and bitter to every sensitive soul, I have sometimes
felt an envy of their fortune. To me the world was almost mirthful if
its good-byes came less frequent. Cold and heat, the contumely of the
slanderer, the insult of the tyrant, the agues and fevers of the flesh,
the upheavals of personal fortune, were events a robust man might face
with calm valiancy if he could be spared the cheering influence of the
homely scene or the unchanged presence of his familiars and friends. I
have sat in companies and put on an affected mirth, and laughed and sung
with the most buoyant of all around, and yet ever and anon I chilled at
the intruding notion of life’s brevity.
Thus my leaving town Inneraora--its frozen hearths, its smokeless vents,
its desecrated doorways, and the few of my friends who were back to
it--was a stupendous grief. My father and my kinspeople were safe--we
had heard of them by the returners from Lennox; but a girl with dark
tresses gave me a closer passion for my native burgh than ever I felt
for the same before. If love of his lady had been Argile’s reason for
retreat (thought I), there was no great mystery in his act.
What enhanced my trouble was that Clan MacLachlan--as Catholics always
safe to a degree from the meddling of the invaders--had re-established
themselves some weeks before in their own territory down the loch, and
that young Lachlan, as his father’s proxy, was already manifesting a
guardian’s interest in his cousin. The fact came to my knowledge in a
way rather odd, but characteristic of John Splendid’s anxiety to save
his friends the faintest breeze of ill-tidings.
We were up early betimes in the morning of our departure for Lorn,
though our march was fixed for the afternoon, as we had to await the
arrival of some officers from Ceanntyre; and John and I, preparing our
accoutrements, began to talk of the business that lay heaviest at my
heart--the leaving of the girl we had found in Strongara wood.
“The oddest thing that ever happened to me,” he said, after a while,
“is that in the matter of this child she mothers so finely she should
be under the delusion that I have the closest of all interests in its
paternity. Did you catch her meaning when she spoke of its antecedents
as we sat, the four of us, behind the fir-roots?”
“No, I can’t say that I did,” said I, wonderingly.
“You’re not very gleg at some things, Elrigmore,” he said, smiling.
“Your Latin gave you no clue, did it, to the fact that she thought John
M’Iver a vagabond of the deepest dye?”
“If she thought that,” I cried, “she baffles me; for a hint I let drop
in a mere careless badinage of your gallanting reputation made her
perilously near angry.”
John with pursed lips stroked his chin, musing on my words. I was afraid
for a little he resented my indiscretion, but resentment was apparently
not in his mind, for his speech found no fault with me.
“Man, Colin,” he said, “you could scarcely have played a more cunning
card if you had had myself to advise you. But no matter about that.”
“If she thinks so badly of you, then,” I said, “why not clear yourself
from her suspicions, that I am willing to swear (less because of your
general character than because of your conduct since she and you and the
child met) are without foundation?”
“I could scarcely meet her womanly innuendo with a coarse and abrupt
denial,” said he. “There are some shreds of common decency left in me
yet.”
“And you prefer to let her think the worst?”
He looked at me with a heightened colour, and he laughed shortly.
“You’ll be no loser by that, perhaps,” he said; and before I could
answer he added, “Pardon a foolish speech, Colin; I learned the trick of
fanfaron among foreign gentry who claimed a _conquête d’amour_ for every
woman who dropped an eye to their bold scrutiny. Do not give me any
share of your jealousy for Lachlan MacLachlan of that ilk--I’m not
deserving the honour. And that reminds me----”
He checked himself abruptly.
“Come, come,” said I, “finish your story; what about MacLachlan and the
lady?”
“The lady’s out of the tale this time,” he said, shortly. “I met him
stravaiging the vacant street last night; that was all.”
“Then I can guess his mission without another word from you,” I cried,
after a little dumfounderment. “He would be on the track of his cousin.”
“Not at all,” said John, with a bland front; “he told me he was looking
for a boatman to ferry him over the loch.”
This story was so plainly fabricated to ease my apprehension that down I
went, incontinent, and sought the right tale in the burgh.
Indeed it was not difficult to learn the true particulars, for the place
rang all the worse for its comparative emptiness with the scandal of
M’Iver’s encounter with Mac-Lachlan, whom, it appeared, he had found
laying a gallant’s siege to the upper window of Askaig’s house, whose
almost unharmed condition had made it a convenient temporary shelter for
such as had returned to the town. In the chamber behind the window that
Mac-Lachlan threw his peebles at, were his cousin and the child, as
M’Iver speedily learned, and he trounced him from the neighbourhood with
indignities.
“What set you on the man?” I asked John when I came back after learning
this.
“What do you think?” said he.
“You could have done no more if you had an eye on the girl yourself,” I
said, “and that, you assure me, is out of the question.”
“The reason was very simple,” he answered. “I have a sort of elder man’s
mischievous pleasure in spoiling a young buck’s ploy, and--and--there
might be an extra interest in my entertainment in remembering that you
had some jealous regard for the lady.”
All I had that was precious to take with me when we left Inneraora to
follow the track of Montrose was the friendly wave of Mistress Betty’s
hand as we marched out below the Arches on our way to the North.
Argile and Auchinbreac rode at our head--his lordship on a black
horse called Lepanto, a spirited beast that had been trained to active
exercises and field-practice; Auchinbreac on a smaller animal, but of
great spirit and beauty. M’Iver and I walked, as did all the officers.
We had for every one of our corps twelve shot apiece, and in the rear a
sufficiency of centners of powder, with ball and match. But we depended
more on the prick of pike and the slash of sword than on our culverins.
Our Lowland levies looked fairly well disciplined and smart, but there
was apparent among them no great gusto about our expedition, and we
had more hope of our vengeance at the hands of our uncouth but eager
clansmen who panted to be at the necks of their spoilers and old
enemies.
M’Iver confided to me more than once his own doubts about the mettle of
the companies from Dumbarton.
“I could do well with them on a foreign strand,” he said, “fighting for
the bawbees against half-hearted soldiery like themselves, but I have my
doubts about their valour or their stomach for this broil with a kind
of enemy who’s like to surprise them terribly when the time comes. This
affair’s decision must depend, I’m afraid, for the most part on our own
lads, and I wish there were more of them.”
We went up the Glen at a good pace, an east wind behind us, and the road
made a little easier for us since the snow had been trodden by the folks
we were after. To-day you will find Aora Glen smiling--happy with crop
and herd on either hand and houses at every turn of the road, with
children playing below the mountain-ash that stands before each door.
You cannot go a step but human life’s in sight Our march was in a
desolate valley--the winds with the cold odour (one might almost think)
of ruin and death.
Beyond Lecknamban, where the time by the shadow on Tom-an-Uarader was
three hours of the afternoon, a crazy old _cailleach_, spared by some
miracle from starvation and doom, ran out before us wringing her hands,
and crying a sort of coronach for a family of sons of whom not one had
been spared to her. A gaunt, dark woman, with a frenzied eye, her cheeks
collapsed, her neck and temples like crinkled parchment, her clothes
dropping off her in strips, and her bare feet bleeding in the snow.
Argile scoffed at the superstition, as he called it, and the Lowland
levies looked on it as a jocular game, when we took a few drops of her
blood from her forehead for luck--a piece of chirurgy that was perhaps
favourable to her fever, and one that, knowing the ancient custom, and
respecting it, she made no fraca about.
She followed us in the snow to the ruins of Camus, pouring out her
curses upon Athole and the men who had made her home desolate and her
widowhood worse than the grave, and calling on us a thousand blessings.
Lochow--a white, vast meadow, still bound in frost--we found was able to
bear our army and save us the toilsome bend round Stronmealchan. We put
out on its surface fearlessly. The horses pranced between the isles; our
cannon trundled on over the deeps; our feet made a muffled thunder, and
that was the only sound in all the void. For Cruachan had looked down on
the devastation of the enemy. And at the falling of the night we camped
at the foot of Glen Noe.
It was a night of exceeding clearness, with a moon almost at the full,
sailing between us and the south. A certain jollity was shed by it upon
our tired brigade, though all but the leaders (who slept in a tent)
were resting in the snow on the banks of the river, with not even a
saugh-tree to give the illusion of a shelter. There was but one fire in
the bivouac, for there was no fuel at hand, and we had to depend upon a
small stock of peats that came with us in the stores-sledge.
Deer came to the hill and belled mournfully, while we ate a frugal meal
of oat-bannock and wort. The Low-landers--raw lads--became boisterous;
our Gaels, stern with remembrance and eagerness for the coming business,
thawed to their geniality, and soon the laugh and song went round our
camp. Argile himself for a time joined in our diversion. He came out of
his tent and lay in his plaid among his more immediate followers, and
gave his quota to the story or the guess. In the deportment of his
lordship now there was none of the vexatious hesitancy that helped him
to a part so poor as he played in his frowning tower at home among the
soothing and softening effects of his family’s domestic affairs. He was
true Diarmaid the bold, with a calm eye and steadfast, a worthy general
for us his children, who sat round in the light of the cheerful fire.
So sat his forebears and ours on the close of many a weary march, on the
eve of many a perilous enterprise. That cold pride that cocked his
head so high on the causeway-stones of Inneraora relinquished to a mien
generous, even affectionate, and he brought out, as only affection may,
the best that was of accomplishment and grace in his officers around.
“Craignure,” he would say, “I remember your story of the young King of
Easaidh Ruadh; might we have it anew?” Or, “Donald, is the Glassary song
of the Target in your mind? It haunts me like a charm.”
And the stories came free, and in the owercome of the songs the dark of
Glen Noe joined most lustily.
Songs will be failing from the memory in the ranging of the years, the
passions that rose to them of old burned low in the ash, so that many
of the sweetest ditties I heard on that night in Glen Noe have long syne
left me for ever--all but one that yet I hum to the children at my knee.
It was one of John Splendid’s; the words and air were his as well as the
performance of them, and though the English is a poor language wherein
to render any fine Gaelic sentiment, I cannot forbear to give something
of its semblance here. He called it in the Gaelic “The Sergeant of
Pikes,” and a few of its verses as I mind them might be Scotticed so--
When I sat in the service o’ foreign commanders,
Selling a sword for a beggar man’s fee,
Learning the trade o’ the warrior who wanders,
To mak’ ilka stranger a sworn enemie;
There was ae thought that nerved roe, and brawly it served me.
With pith to the claymore wherever I won,--
‘Twas the auld sodger’s story, that, gallows or glory,
The Hielan’s, the Hielan’s were crying me on!
I tossed upon swinging seas, splashed to my kilted knees,
Ocean or ditch, it was ever the same;
In leaguer or sally, tattoo or revally,
The message on every pibroch that came,
Was “Cruachan, Cruachan, O son remember us,
Think o’ your fathers and never be slack!”
Blade and buckler together, though far off the heather,
The Hielan’s, the Hielan’s were all at my back!
The ram to the gate-way, the torch to the tower,
We rifled the kist, and the cattle we maimed;
Our dirks stabbed at guess through the leaves o’ the bower,
And crimes we committed that needna be named:
Moonlight or dawning grey, Lammas or Lady-day,
Donald maun dabble his plaid in the gore;
He maun hough and maun harry, or should he miscarry,
The Hielan’s, the Hielan’s will own him no more!
And still, O strange Providence! mirk is your mystery,
Whatever the country that chartered our steel
Because o’ the valiant repute o’ our history,
The love o’ our ain land we maistly did feel;
Many a misty glen, many a sheiling pen,
Rose to our vision when slogans rang high;
And this was the solace bright came to our starkest fight,
A’ for the Hielan’s, the Hielan’s we die!
A Sergeant o’ Pikes, I have pushed and have parried O
(My heart still at tether in bonny Glenshee);
Weary the marches made, sad the towns harried O,
But in fancy the heather was aye at my knee:
The hill-berry mellowing, stag o’ ten bellowing,
The song o’ the fold and the tale by the hearth,
Bairns at the crying and auld folks a-dying,
The Hielan’s sent wi’ me to fight round the earth!
O the Hielan’s, the Hielan’s, praise God for His favour,
That ane sae unworthy should heir sic estate,
That gi’ed me the zest o the sword, and the savour
That lies in the loving as well as the hate.
Auld age may subdue me, a grim death be due me,
For even a Sergeant o’ Pikes maun depart,
But I’ll never complain o’t, whatever the pain o’t,
The Hielan’s, the Hielan’s were aye at my heart!
We closed in our night’s diversion with the exercise of prayer, wherein
two clerics led our devotion, one Master Mungo Law, a Lowlander, and the
other his lordship’s chaplain--Master Alexander Gordon, who had come on
this expedition with some fire of war in his face, and never so much as
a stiletto at his waist.
They prayed a trifle long and drearily the pair of them, and both in
the English that most of our clansmen but indifferently understood. They
prayed as prayed David, that the counsel of Ahithophel might be turned
to foolishness; and “Lo,” they said, “be strong and courageous; fear
not, neither be afraid of the King of Ashur, neither for all the
multitude that is with him; for there be more with us than with him,”
and John Splendid turned to me at this with a dry laugh.
“Colin, my dear,” said he, “thus the hawk upon the mountain-side, and
the death of the winged eagle to work up a valour for! ‘There be more
with us than with him.’ I never heard it so bluntly put before. But
perhaps Heaven will forgive us the sin of our caution, seeing that half
our superior number are but Lowland levies.”
And all night long deer belled to deer on the braes of Glen Noe.