TELLETH HOW SIR JOHN BEHELD THE GHOST
Down a dark and narrow lane Sir Hector led them, across a wide meadow,
over a dim stream spanned by footbridge, along a glimmering road overhung
by rustling trees, through a gate and so to a grassy, wind-swept upland
crowned by a hedge with a mystery of trees beyond; a desolate gloom
full of ghostly stirrings, with mournful sighs and groanings in every
wind-gust. Here Sir Hector paused suddenly and stood very still and
silent.
“And, pray, what now?” questioned Sir John.
“Whisht, lad! Can ye no’ see I’m listenin’?”
“Aye, but why are you here? What do you purpose, Hector?”
“Wull ye no’ be still, John?”
“Not until I know why you run such needless risk. If the preventive
officers discover us we shall be apprehended as accessories. If you
attempt to stay them in their duty, you will be branded as a smuggler
yourself——”
“Umph-humph!” exclaimed Sir Hector, emitting a sound between laugh and
groan.
“What is the meaning of it all, Hector?”
“Then, John, if ye must have it” answered Sir Hector in his precise
English, “though as an elder of the Scottish Church, a baronet, a general
and a MacLean o’ Duart, I do not hold with the lawless and therefore
nefarious traffic of smuggling, yet being also of a reprehensibly
perverse and damnably adventurous spirit, I am the greatest smuggler of
them all——”
“You, Hector ... you?”
“Myself, John! I own the _True Believer_, every plank an’ spar an’
rivet—though ne’er a body kens it save Potter, Bunkle and Sharkie
Nye. Aye, an’ ’tis mony a hundred guineas I’ve handled these last twa
years, but, bein’ elder, y’ ken, I’ve spent every penny on guid warks
... there’s the wee chapel ower to Berwick ... the row o’ almshooses
ower to Seaford ... there’s blankets an’ kindlin’ to comfort auld banes
i’ the winter. An’ yet, Johnnie, do what I will, the kirk elder in me
canna abide the smuggler, whateffer! So whate’er the smuggler gains, the
elder spends.... And to-night that de’il Sayle hath loosed strangers and
soldiers on us, and thus ... if the lads must run risk o’ bullet and
capture, so will I, since, like them. I’m just a smuggler. Aweel, here’s
my confession, an’ muckle glad am I to be oot wi’t at last. An’ now,
John, what’s your judgment?”
For a moment Sir John was silent, then he laughed a little unsteadily and
slipped his hand within Sir Hector’s arm.
“O Hector—thou paradox!” quoth he. “Was there ever stranger, more
lovable anomaly than Hector Lauchlan MacLean ... with his smuggling and
almshouses? ’Faith, thou soarest far beyond my poor understanding. And
who am I to judge thee? And, besides——”
“Sirs,” said the Corporal in sudden, hoarse whisper, “beg to report
moving bodies on our left front.”
Sure enough, between the fitful wind-gusts was a confused murmur of sound
that grew momentarily louder, until they could distinguish the muffled
trampling of horses toiling up the steep ascent. Suddenly, afar in the
dimness was the flash and report of a musket, the whine of a bullet with
a distant shouting and clamour of pursuit. On came the fugitives near
and nearer, a vague blur, the dim shapes of scrambling horses and men;
nearer, until the watchers could hear the snort of labouring animals, the
panting of men hard-pressed, a groan, a sobbing, muttered oath of pain
and weariness, and then a voice cheery, dominating, familiar:
“Bear up, Tom lad, it be only a bit farther! Bear up an’ we’ll cog ’em
yet. You, Dick, is yon keg loose?”
“Aye, Jarge, it be.”
“Then let ’em ’ave it! Away wi’t!”
Ensued a creak of leather, a heavy thud, and away down the slope bounded
the unseen missile; and then horses and men were past and swallowed in
the pervading gloom.
But from below rose shouts, cries and cheers, a growing tumult, and
up the slope straggled the pursuers, a mixed company of soldiery and
coastguards pounding by with a rattle of accoutrements and the dull gleam
of bayonet and cutlass.
And then Sir John found himself running also, but still grasping Sir
Hector’s arm and keeping always in the gloom of hedges; on and on till he
was breathless; past gloomy trees, across dykes and ditches, stumbling
and slipping yet still maintaining fast hold of his companion’s arm; on
through a dim-seen gate and so along a dusty road until Sir Hector halted
all at once.
“Hark, John!” he panted. “Hark to yon!”
In their front was sudden clamour swelling to exultant shouts and cheers,
whereupon Sir Hector cursed bitterly and hurried on again with tireless
stride.
“What is it?” gasped Sir John.
“They’ve captured some o’ the lads!” panted Sir Hector. “An’ now ’tis tae
the rescue or be taken wi’ ’em ... loose me, John!”
“No, by heaven!”
“Johnnie man—loose me! My place is beside the poor lads yonder.”
“And I say ’tis here——”
“By God, John—must I knock ye down?” Sir Hector’s threatening fist was
seized and held for a moment in the Corporal’s powerful grasp, while
they reeled to and fro, all three locked in desperate grapple. Then Sir
Hector, exerting his giant strength, hurled the Corporal into the ditch,
swung Sir John violently aloft, and as suddenly set him back upon his
feet, for from the gloom before them rose a sound very awful to hear, the
shrill screaming of a man in the direst extremity of agony or fear.
“Guid save ’s a’—what’s yon?” gasped Sir Hector, as the dreadful sound
shuddered to silence. “O man, what awfu’ thing is chancin’?”
A sudden shot, followed by three or four in rapid succession; a confusion
of shrieks and hoarse outcries, a wild, rapidly growing hubbub.
“They’re running, sir!” quoth the Corporal.
“They’re comin’ back!” cried Sir Hector. “D’ye no’ hear ’em, Johnnie—d’ye
no’ hear ’em?”
“Aye, Hector. And, by heaven, they run like madmen! Quick ... behind this
tree! Robert, are ye there?”
“On your honour’s left flank!”
Crouched in the shadow, they waited; beheld dimly a wild rabble of
fleeing men who sobbed and groaned and cast away weapons and equipment
to aid their flight. For there, flitting in pursuit, was a monstrous and
gruesome thing outlined in pallid flame, a gigantic horror that lifted
high in air two huge, widespreading horns tipped with green fire. On it
came, swiftly, silently, a ghastly shape of fear, at sight of which Sir
Hector groaned aloud and strove to hide his gigantic person behind the
tree, while Robert, recoiling upon his master, drew forth a pistol with
shaking hand.
“Don’t shoot!” cried Sir John in fierce command; even as he spoke the
fearful thing flitted past and all suddenly was gone.
“Save us a’!” gasped Sir Hector. “Yon was a kelpie!” And, sitting down at
foot of the tree, he took off his hat and wig to mop sweating brow, while
the Corporal stood rigid, glaring, hand tight clenched upon the pistol he
held.
“Your honour observed its horns?” he questioned at last hoarsely.
“I did, Robert!”
“Tipped wi’ fire, sir, an’ a yard wide, just as I told your honour.”
“The description was very exact, Robert. I recognised your ghost on the
instant.”
“Ghost, is it?” quoth Sir Hector scornfully. “Man, a ghost is a pretty
poppet in comparison! Yon was a kelpie, I’m tellin’ ye.”
“And the soldiers are all fled away, Hector, and ha’ left their prisoners
behind ’em!”
“And likewise most o’ their equipment, sir,” added the Corporal.
“O John, O Johnnie man,” moaned Sir Hector from his lowly seat, “’tis an
awfu’ thing we ha’ seen this nicht!”
“True, Hector. But Mr. Potter and his fellows are safe, and we have taken
no harm——”
“Whisht lad! Dinna be too sure; forbye, I’ve an unchancy feelin’ in ma
wame, an’ ma bowels be turned tae watter, Johnnie!”
“Then I suggest a jorum of Mr. Bunkle’s gumboo.”
“Na, na, Johnnie! When a man sees a kelpie ’tis time for him tae think
o’ ither things, y’ ken.... Come awa’ hame wi’ me instead, for ’tis a
solitary man I’ll be the nicht.”
Two o’clock was striking as they re-entered Alfriston to find it still
lapped in peaceful slumber. Reaching his habitation, Sir Hector lifted
the latch, but, finding the door gently resistant, paused.
“That’ll be Wully Tamson,” he explained. “Wully always sleeps across the
threshold whin he chances to be byordinar’ fu’. Hey, Wully man, wake
up!” And Sir Hector bowed mighty shoulder and hove the door wide enough
to gain admittance, whereupon from the pitchy gloom arose reproachful
groanings and plaintive mutterings that ended in stentorian snore.
“Come in,” quoth Sir Hector from the dark, “an’ mind ye don’t tread
on Wully.... So! Now wait ’till I find the candle.” Here the sound of
ineffectual gropings and a splintering crash. “A’ richt, Johnnie, ’twas
only a platter,” Sir Hector explained, “though what ’twas doin’ on the
mantel-shelf I dinna ken.... I pit the candle here somewhere, I’ll swear
... ah!” Ensued the sound of flint and steel and in due season the candle
was lighted to discover a small, disordered room; before the ashes of a
long-dead fire the single elbow-chair bore a pair of dusty riding-boots
and the joints of a fishing-rod, while the table was littered with sundry
unwashed crockery, amidst which reposed a weatherbeaten hat.
“’Tis no’ juist a palace, John, but what there is of it is hamely.... If
ye’ll pit some o’ the crockery on the floor we’ll crack a bottle for auld
lang syne—what—ye’ll no’. Aweel, mebbe ’tis a little early for’t, an’
we’ll be better in bed.”
“I think so, Hector. And I venture to suggest your cottage might be made
even more homely by a woman with a brush, or a mop, or——”
“A wumman, Johnnie, a wumman? Hoot—toot, she’d juist tidy a’ the comfort
oot o’ the place wi’ her sweepin’ an’ scowerin’—a wumman? My certie! I do
verra weel wi’ Wully Tamson. Guid-nicht t’ye, John——”
“Begging your pardon, Sir Hector,” quoth the Corporal, standing at
attention, “but what might a kelpie be pre-cisely?”
“Why, Robbie man, a kelpie is a beastie that’s no’ a beastie, being
supernatural y’ken, and yet ’tis a beastie o’ sorts wi’ horns an’ hoofs,
and no’ a healthy sicht for ony man.”
“And wherefore not healthy, sir?”
“Havers, man, because it is a kelpie, for sure! Johnnie man, I shall
sleep wi’ my pistols handy this nicht, for, though carnal weapons be no
good against bogles whateffer, more especially kelpies, there’s a deal o’
comfort in the feel o’ a pistol in your cloof.”