It was late that night when the Herd got back from his rounds of the
pastures. His boots soaked in the wet ground and the clothes clung to
his limbs, for the rain had come down heavily. A rumble of thunder
sounded over the hills as he raised the latch of his door. He felt glad
he had not left the white goat tethered in the whins on the hill.
His little daughter had gone to sleep. His wife told him the child on
being put to bed had wept bitterly, but refused to confess the cause of
her grief. The Herd said nothing, but he knew the child had wept for the
white goat. The thought of the child's emotion moved him, and he turned
out of the house again, standing in the darkness and the rain. Why had
they attacked the poor brute? He asked the question over and over
again, but only the rain beat in his face and around him was darkness,
mystery. Then he heard the voices higher up on the side of the hill,
first a laugh, then some shouts and cries. A thick voice raised the
refrain of a song, and it came booming through the murky atmosphere. The
Herd could hear the words:
_Where are the legs with which you run?
Hurroo! Hurroo!
Where are the legs with which you run?
Hurroo! Hurroo!
Where are the legs with which you run
When first you went to carry a gun?
Indeed, your dancing days are done!
Och, Johnny, I hardly knew ye!_
And then came the chorus like a roar down the hills:
_With drums and guns, and, guns and drum
The enemy nearly slew ye;
My darling dear, you look so queer,
Och, Johnny, I hardly knew ye!_
The voices of the labourers passing from the tillage fields died away,
and the rumble of thunder came down more frequently from the hills. The
Herd crossed his garden, his boots sinking in the soft ground. Half way
across he paused, for a loud cry had dominated the fury of the breaking
storm. His ears were quick for the cries of animals in distress. He went
on rapidly toward the stable.
The ground grew more sloppy and a thin stream of water came from the rim
of his soft black hat, streaming down his face. He noted the flashes of
lightning overhead. Through it all the cry of the white goat sounded,
with that weird, vibrating "mag-gag" that was the traditional note of
her race. It had a powerful appeal for the Herd. It stirred a feeling of
passion within him as he hurried through the rain.
How they must have lacerated her, a poor brute chained to the sod, at
the mercy of their abuse! The red row of marks along her gams, raw and
terrible, sprang to his sight out of the darkness. Vengeance, vengeance!
He gripped his powerful hands, opening and closing the fists. Then he
was conscious of something in the storm and the darkness that robbed him
of his craving for personal vengeance. All that belonged to the
primitive man welled up in him. He knew that in the heart of the future
there lurked a reckoning--something, somebody--that would count the
tally at the appointed time. Then he had turned round the gable of the
stable. He saw the ghostly white thing, shadowy in the blackness, lying
prostrate before the door. He stood still, his breath drawn inward.
There was a movement in the white shape. He could discern the blurred
outline of the head of the animal as she raised it up a little. There
was a low moan followed by a great cry. The Herd stood still, terror in
his heart. For he interpreted that cry in all the terrible inarticulate
consciousness of his own being. That cry sounded in his ears like an
appeal to all the generations of wronged dumb things that had ever come
under the lash of the tyranny of men. It was the protest of the brute
creation against humanity, and to the Herd it was a judgment. Then his
eyes caught a murky gleam beside the fallen white shape, and the
physical sense of things jumped back to his mind.
He remembered that in wet weather a pool of water always gathered before
the stable door. He remembered that there was a glimmer of it there when
he had led the white goat into the stable. He remembered how she had
shown fear of it.
He stooped down over the white goat where she lay. Thin wisps of her
hair floated about looking like dim wraiths against the blackness of the
pool. He caught a look of the brown eyes and was aware that the udder
and teats bulged up from the water. He sank down beside her, the water
making a splash as his knees dropped into the place. The animal raised
her head a little and with pain, for the horns seemed to weigh like
lead. But it was an acknowledgment that she was conscious of his
presence; then the head fell back, a gurgle sounding over one of the
ears.
The Herd knew what had happened, and it was all very tragical to his
mind. His wife had come out to the stable for something, and had left
the door open behind her. The white goat, goaded by the growing pain,
had staggered out the door, perhaps feeling some desire for the open
fields in her agony. Then she had seen before the threshold of the door
that which had always been a horror to her--a pool of water. The Herd
could see her tottering and swaying and then falling into it with a cry,
fulfilling her destiny. He wondered if he himself had the same instinct
for the things that would prove fatal to him? Why was he always so
nervous when he stooped to or lay upon the ground? Why did it always
give him a feeling that he would be trampled under the hooves of
stampeding cattle rounded up for treatment for the warble fly? He
trembled as he heard the beat of hooves on the ground behind him. He
peered about and for a while did not recognise the shape that moved
restlessly about in the darkness. He heard the neigh of the brood mare.
He knew then she had been hovering about the stable afraid to go in out
of the storm. She was afraid to go in because of the thing that lay
before the stable door. He heard the answering call of the young foal
in the stable, and he knew that it, too, was afraid to come out even at
the call of its dam. Death was about in that night of storm, and all
things seemed conscious of it.
He stooped down over the white goat and worked his hands under her
shoulders. He lifted her up and felt the strain all over his frame, the
muscles springing tense on his arms. She was a dead weight, and he had
always prided on her size. His knees dug into the puddle in the bottom
of the pool as he felt the pressure on his haunches. He strained hard as
he got one of his feet under him. With a quick effort he got the other
foot into position and rose slowly, lifting the white form out of the
pool. The shaggy hair hung from the white goat, limp and reeking,
numerous thin streams of water making a little ripple as they fell. The
limbs of the Herd quivered under the weight, he staggered back, his
heavy boots grinding in the gravel; then he set his teeth, the limbs
steadied themselves, he swayed uncertainly for a moment, then staggered
across the stable door, conscious of the hammer strokes of the heart of
the white goat beating against his own heart. He laid her down in the
bed of straw and heard the young foal bounding out of the stable in
terror. The Herd stood in the place, the sweat breaking out on his
forehead, then dropping in great beads.
The white goat began to moan. The Herd was aware from the rustling of
the straw that her limbs were working convulsively. He knew from the
nature of her wounds that her death would be prolonged, her agonies
extreme. What if he put her out of pain? It would be all over in a
moment. His hand went to his pocket, feeling it on the outside. He made
out the shape of the knife, but hesitated.
One of the hooves of the white goat struck him on the ankle as her limbs
worked convulsively. His hand went into his pocket and closed around the
weapon. He would need to be quick and sure, to have a steady hand, to
make a swift movement. He allowed himself some moments to decide. Then
the blade of the knife shot back with a snap.
The sound seemed to reach the white goat in all its grim significance.
She struggled to her feet, moaning more loudly. The Herd began to
breathe hard. He was afraid she would cry out even as she had cried out
as she lay in the pool before the stable door. The terror of the things
that made up that cry broke in upon the Herd. He shook with fear of it.
Then he stooped swiftly, his fingers nervously feeling over the delicate
course of the throat of the white goat. His hands moved a little
backwards and forwards in the darkness. He felt the hot stream on his
hands, then the animal fell without a sound, her horns striking against
the wall. He stood over her for a moment and was conscious that his
hands were wet. Then he remembered with a shudder that the whole tragedy
of the night had been one of rains and pools and water and clinging damp
things, of puddles and sweats and blood. Even now the knife he held in
his fingers was dripping. He let it fall. It fell with a queer thud,
sounding of flesh, of a dead body. It had fallen on the dead body of the
white goat. He turned with a groan and made his way uncertainly for the
stable door.
At the door he stood, thoughts crowding in upon him, questions beating
upon his brain and giving no time for answer. Around him was darkness,
mystery, Death. What right had he to thrust his hand blindly into the
heart of this mystery? Who had given him the power to hasten the end, to
summon Death before its time? Had not Nature her own way for counting
out the hours and the minutes? Had not she, or some other power,
appointed an hour for the white goat to die? She would live, even in
agony, until they could bear her up no longer; and having died Nature
would pass her through whatever channel her laws had ordained. Had not
the white goat made her last protest against his interference when she
had risen to her feet in her death agony? And if the white goat, dumb
beast that she was, had suffered wrong at the hands of man, then there
was, the Herd now knew, a Power deliberate and inexorable, scrupulous in
its delicate adjustment of right and wrong, that would balance the
account at the appointed audit.
He had an inarticulate understanding of these things as he moved from
the stable door. He tripped over a barrow unseen in the darkness and
fell forward on his face into the field. As he lay there he heard the
thudding of hooves on the ground. He rose, dizzy and unnerved, to see
the dim shapes of some cattle that had gathered down about the place
from the upland. He felt the rain beating upon his face, the clothes
hung dank and clammy to his limbs. His boots soaked and slopped when he
stepped. A boom of thunder sounded overhead and a vivid flash of
lightning lit up for an instant a great elm tree. He saw all its
branches shining with water, drops glistening along a thousand stray
twigs. Then the voices of the labourers returning over the hills broke
in upon his ears. He heard their shouts, the snatches of their songs,
their noise, all the ribaldry of men merry in their drink.
The Herd groped through the darkness for his house like a half-blind
man, his arms out before him, and a sudden gust of wind that swept the
hillside shrieked about the blood of the white goat that was still wet
upon his hands.